I am an orange wedged between a man with disheveled hair, suspicious face, and dirty fingernails, and a coño kid from Don Bosco, clad in a flashy shirt I’d like to wear myself. The man clutches a stack of pirated VCDs and holds it like a rare find. The boy brings out a late-model cell phone I lost track of naming; how could people change cell phone models so easily? He’s on his way home to Merville. The traffic is heavy.
We were four in a row and the squeeze is giving me pain. Soon my legs go numb. The numbness reaches my torso until it rests on my chest. My heart is cramped. It spurts pulp bits and spills the seeds of knowledge, unease and despair out of my compartmentalized self. This is the moment I’ve been waiting for - when I’m beaten to a pulp until I can say I’ve felt nothing, seen nothing when I get home.