The empty platform, temperate, smells like wet stone and musk, smoke and metal. The young man steadies himself against the tile wall as his friends laugh and chatter, waiting for the train at the earliest brink of morning.

The woman, old and fat, she drips with jewelery and is draped with patterns, an heiress from Dominica, Lola, she had thrown the young man a party earlier at her small West Village flat. He’d written her a song, a simple bossa, gave her the original score and he never imagined it would make her so happy. He’d never been the guest of honor before, other than birthdays, which you really don’t have to do anything to be celebrated. She’d made gazpacho and bought him a bottle of his favorite Scotch. They sat and laughed, he sneered with his roommate because the bassist wasn’t aware she’d flashed her crotch when she sat Indian style on the floor.

At last the train comes, and the scotch bottle is half empty. He hides the bottle under a wool poncho he borrowed from Lola, his arms tucked around it. The train is empty, and the rattle of the metal wheels, the clack like snares in a parade band, is loud. The train tosses. He sits back on the hard yellow seat, reading the advertisements and the messages and monograms etched in the steel walls. He sips, while another rider, also on his dark morning ride home, watches him sip. Tomorrow he will roll out of bed in the afternoon, drink water and smoke a cigarette. He’ll head to school, and on a polished saxophone he’ll play jazz with his friends. He’ll eat Jamaican patties on 125th street, and finish the Scotch over a game of dominoes at night.

While the 1 Train travels back and forth.

The hot platform, full and humid, smells like an old tub, like rust and roasted nuts, like a mud puddle. The man adjusts his computer bag, sweats in his khakis and checks his mobile phone for messages from the office.

He finds an empty yellow seat and he sits, adjusts his computer bag and crosses his legs. He can still taste the morning coffee he brewed in a French Press, at his home on Long Island, where he’d awoken to give his infant daughter a bottle. He had smiled at her when she grabbed his fingers and cooed while she drank. He checks his phone for messages from work as the train clacks and sways, a muted rhythm. He reads the advertisements and the marks roughed into the metal walls where he stares at his reflection. He’s gotten fat, and his hair is thin.

Later, he will head to a luncheon to listen to speakers talk about technology and business. They’ll read results from the study and show charts decorated in colors and dotted lines while he takes notes. They’ll serve wine, which he loves, but he will only have one glass. When it is done he will ride the subway back to Penn station, where he will catch a train to Long Island. In the blue cushioned seat, watching Queens roll by like a reel of film, he’ll open his computer to work on articles and send messages. He’ll think about his daughter and his wife, about the lawn he has to cut this weekend. He’ll fret when his laptop battery loses power. At night he’ll read Whitman and Goodnight Moon to his daughter, he’ll cook dinner for his family and fall asleep before the late shows run on television.

While the 1 Train travels back and forth.