do you ever stare at people’s arms while you ride the subway?

by Vivian Littlefield

Do you ever stare at people’s arms while you ride the subway?

Do you ever watch as they bend, stretch, extend? Do you ever stare at them sitting there, positioned motionlessly as their owner watches a video on their cell phone?

Do you ever notice the upward turn of the elbow?

How it transforms when straightened?

Do you ever get watched back, from the creases in the elbow skin?

Do you ever take a knife to commute with you, hidden under papers you need to grade and tissues you’ve yet to use?

Do you tell yourself it’s just for safety’s sake?

Just to placate that terror in your gut whenever your eyes unconsciously slip from a stranger’s eyes to their sleeves?

And you try to stop yourself before you see the book they’re cradling?

Or the bag strap in the crook of their elbow?

And do you ever notice how her arm could almost be your arm?

If you look hard enough?

If you try hard enough?

Did you ever think that you wouldn’t really do it?

Can you see the blood before you taste it?

Can you separate her from herself and does it part for you like the sea for Moses?

Is it exciting?

Do you wait with her until the train comes to a halt?

With her blood still covering your chest and the people still watching?

And once you stand up, do you hold her hand in your hand for just a moment, before the doors open? Does her detached forearm swing gently back and forth, as if it can’t acknowledge its separation just yet?

Do you take it with you, when you exit the subway doors and run up the stairs before anyone’s realized there’s anything to be pursued?

Does it complete you?

Photo of Vivian Littlefield

BIO: Vivian Littlefield (she/her) is a sixteen year old writer from Brooklyn, New York. She has been taking classes with Uptown Stories for five years and recently attended the Iowa Young Writers’ Workshop and the Young Writers’ Studio at Bard at Simon’s Rock. She enjoys consuming and creating stories in all the many forms they take.