The ladies don’t do lunch. They ride the train during rush hour on Mondays instead. They’re not looking for a gentleman to give up his seat. They’re looking for some muscles to rub against, for asses to grab. This week, there isn’t the usual crush of passengers pushing and pulling. Just plenty of poles to hang onto. The ladies flex their fingers, anxious to get to work. They sigh when they remember it’s Labor Day. Tug at their compression socks, shuffle in their orthopedic shoes as they exit. And remind each other; same time next week to settle old scores.
Karen Crawford lives in and writes in the City of Angels. She is a writer with Puerto Rican roots and a Pushcart Prize nominee. Her stories have appeared or are forthcoming in Cheap Pop, 100 Word Story, Spry Literary Journal, Maudlin House, and elsewhere. You can find her on Twitter @KarenCrawford_