nails for breakfast, tacks for snacks

You don't generally see large people in the city. The pace isn't accomodating and I imagine the train turnstyles grip onto their pudgy folds like a rotisserie chicken. The overweight man I watched on the train this morning wore a gray RocaWear jacket and the lines around his eyes looked about a half century deep. The coffee he propped atop his knee seemed unusually miniature in comparison and I didn't notice the delicately wrapped tin foil package he held for at least a minute or so. Tufts of tousled gray hair grew sparsely, but outnumbered the mousy brown that once was.

I have never seen a man so carefully attend to a ham and cheese croissant. Resting on the generic coffee cup, I watched as his knubby fingers unfolded each silver corner with the precision of a Bloomingdale's gift wrapper. The bright orange cheese spread thin and stringy as he pulled the two halves apart. He moved slowly as if in anticipation. For a second, I thought he really might make love to that breakfast. I was not at all disappointed to miss "the first bite" as the train slowed to a stop at Times Square.