unfit

I lean against the glass, standing opposite the bike rack on the light rail headed south. The night is warm, smelling of fall and coming cooler nights. Voices echo off the plastic walls, resonating and creating a sea of white noise.

To my right, a pale woman with blood dripping from her eyes. She laughs with her friend who has a red-striped sweater and matching hat over jeans. His glasses have no lenses’ they're thick and black.

Across the isle, an obese pirate fiddles with his beaded wig while his girlfriend in a pleated, plaid skirt lays her head against his shoulder. Her pigtails are loose and frizzy. Her eyes turn up at me before she closes them and brings her legs up and under her on the bench.

Past the doors a zombie talks loudly to her girlfriend who wears cotton shorts, a t-shirt with the number seven drawn on it and cleats over her knee-high striped socks. The eye black under her eyes is smeared. Zombie has a gaping wound on her forehead and another on her cheek.

Behind them, a girl wearing a lacy wedding gown with a suit coat over her shoulders rests against the window next to her groom. Her eyes have dark rings under them and her pale cheeks are smeared, letting the fleshy red of someone who has drank too much bleed through.

Farther back, a group of people buzz with conversation. Among them is a cow girl, the Joker and someone from the disco seventies. All the conversations mesh, collide and fold over one another until there's nothing left of interest.

Through my headphones, I hear about strife in the Sudan and an update of electoral campaigning. There's a profound sense of isolation despite the crowd. My eyes go from person to person, from a girl dressed only in lingerie to another in full Victorian splendor and back to the textured floor.

The train slows. From the front of the car a woman steps down and stands waiting for the doors to open. She's in a dark brown suit coat and skirt, wearing small heels and nylons. She wears glasses and has her hair up in an unkempt bun that probably took her more than a half hour.

The train stops, doors open and she steps out. I see the plastic machine gun in her other hand. I smirk at the unoriginality of it. I'd already seen a dozen like her.

I've lost my sense of belonging. Not just with these people or just tonight. I've fallen deeper into myself, away from everything, thinking too much about different things. Their costumes betray their uniformity.