Shadowing above me, glitter sprinkles my nose while a light bulb flickers in amusement; flickers like a lighter burning to crimson the edge of a walking stick. Flickers like the e in penny. The subway floor is never as dirty as it should be. He is wearing those sweatpants for the fourth time this week. I hear tattoos are dangerous. I hear they won’t bury you in a cemetery if you have one. I wish I had a kitten. I would name it Hammy because Hammy is my magician’s cat’s name so maybe I could follow in his footsteps. (The cat’s, not the magician’s.) While my finger comforts its ring, the ballet continues on. Row R, seat 18. The screaming is unintentional. Wait nine stops. No, ten. No, nine. Yes, I’m sure, Kaitlyn. Why must you always rest your head against the silvery scratched siding on the subway? Don’t you know it carries infinite bacteria and germs and amoebas? I would never want you to contract a terrible disease.