Nancy sips her coffee. It’s too hot, and she burns her tongue.
Nancy muses that a daily commute is a young woman’s game. A young woman’s ass wouldn’t hurt so much in these hard, plastic chairs, she thinks. A young woman’s knees could cope with standing when the strain is full, she thinks. She thinks about a young woman’s body, her younger body, taut and strong. She thinks about how young people make mistakes, and how old people make them, too. Past mistakes like running away with her high school sweetheart. Recent mistakes like using her 401K to go to art school, a lifelong dream. A ridiculous lifelong dream. She regrets having to start over, having to work again when she’s just a few years short of the age at which her parents retired. She considers her mother’s disappointment. She considers her disappointment in herself. It wasn’t supposed to be this way, she thinks.
Nancy sips her coffee. It’s too cold.
Sorry about the lack of story yesterday. I was working from home exclusively so I could do my laundry. I'm an adult. I promise.
Nancy is my mother's name. It's weird to use the name of someone to whom I am related. At the same time, this lady on the train looked like a Nancy. Not like my mother, but like a Nancy. So I felt it was appropriate.