Semi-demi-hemi Fiction, I

Rush hour. The moment you step across that gap between the train and the platform, you enter an enclosed world of nonporous walls in which physical contact must be kept to a minimum and eye contact is taboo. All you can do to refrain from appearing to be a creep is to fold your arms in and fix your eyes on a book, a day-old paper, the overhead ads. Simultaneously, in order to retain some amount of decency, you feign ignorance of the fact that an over-the-hill man across the aisle, whose right hand is just out of sight, is staring square at you, or at some part of your modestly-attired body.

In the crowded train, some arm or knee grazing is inevitable and upon first contact, you must recoil subtly so as not to hurt the feelings of the other nameless wild child of the urban jungle. Someone stands and shoulders his way out while you and a toddler squeeze into the empty space. The seat is warm and you shuffle your butt cheeks—not so subtly—while masking your feeling of utter disgust by staring blankly at an ad above. A brand of whiskey that claims to be nectar from the gods. Bullshit, you think. Still, you could use a shot of whiskey right about now. Happy hour ends in 15 minutes, but you have half a bottle of Pinot Grigio at home so it's all good. A sweaty hand slides painfully slowly down the pole right next to you until it is almost touching your elbow, which happens to be resting against the cool metal. You were clearly there first, but you just shift your elbow away without a word. Talking to strangers is against the rule too. Two more stops to go.

It is now 10pm and you are staring at your laptop screen, waiting impatiently for episode three of the first season of 24 to load. What you're doing is deliciously criminal and you vow never to buy a DVD again. You're in your pyjamas, an array of biz casual strewn all over your unmade bed. The cell phone rings—that annoying Mexican hat dance you keep forgetting to change—just as the video has finished loading. Your friends are going out for some drinks; would you like to join? No thanks, it's only Thursday and you've still got that manuscript to finish reading for work. (Yeah right.) They're hitting up that new spot on 3^rd Ave with the amazing cocktails and amazing view. Empty calories, you mutter a bit too loudly as you hang up, pulling out a box of Honey Nut Cheerios from the bottom drawer of your desk. Good thing they were on sale last week at CVS and you stocked up. Don't even bother with the milk; just grab them by the fistful and shovel the goodness into your mouth, just like you did freshman year in college when you had no space for a mini-fridge and hence no milk. If HNCs could be ground into a paste and liquefied, this shit would be the real nectar from the gods, hands down. The cereal god would agree at least.

But the screensaver that just came on reminds you of your task at hand: 24. It's going to be a good night.