Stalled Between Berri and Beaudry

The train stops in the tunnel and the lights drop to the emergency setting, which is orange and makes everyone look ill.

Across from me a man in a navy peacoat is reading La Nausée. His lips move a little. He's about a third in and the spine isn't cracked, so he isn't showing off, he's just started.

The intercom crackles. Désolé pour le retard. Then, after a pause long enough to be a different person: We apologize for the delay.

Nine minutes. In nine minutes you learn what a car full of people does with itself. Two phones come out and go back in when there's no signal. A woman near the door starts eating something out of her bag with enormous discretion. Nobody speaks.

His scarf is coming apart at one end and he's put a knot in it to stop the unravelling. It hasn't worked.

The train lurches. Everyone standing goes one way and comes back. His shoulder hits mine and he says excuse without looking up.

Beaudry. He gets off. The peacoat goes up the stairs and that's it.

I stay on past my stop and read the map, which I've read a thousand times and could draw from memory. Green and orange, crossing twice, never anywhere useful.