They Become Dull

On the side of the carton I am drinking milk from is a warning: This product contains milk. How long have I been surrounded by idiots? They walk too slow. Stop suddenly. Hesitate. Disembodied voices are their guide, announcements are obeyed without question, constantly heeded as they are cycled endlessly. They stare slack-jawed in loose incomprehension at the ticket barriers, bewildered at any possible connection between their paper ticket and the little slot. I push past. At the show they come in, bellies wobbling, hanging over their belts like sacks. Most are crippled in some way, their spines spelling out various letters of the alphabet, as healthy as can’t be. The men sit, tighting their cheap grey stained trousers at their thighs, displaying white socks and yellowed ankles, the ladies sit clutching their bags and clucking like hens at any small unsightliness. And above the heavy breathing comes conversations of the scrambling of eggs, the stitching of fabric, the spreading of cream. In the corner an old grey woman is crying at the loss of her husband. What am I going to do now, she asks, I don't know what to do now. The others tut, as if dealing with a child. There's lots to do these days, one replies, sometimes I don't know how I ever managed to have a job.