Forty-Second Street Station

Three blocks west of Forty-Second street, and about thirty feet below, there are twentythree people huddled together around three tile posts, waiting for the train. One is a short, jaunty man, with thick eyebrows and a cap, and another is an older woman, wearing a long, thin evening dress, on this otherwise cold day.

The short man is a gambler, probabally not wealthy. He's wearing a grey cap that makes him look like a Sam. Or maybe a John. His briefcase is probabally filled with apples. It's black leather, like every other suitcase, but has several suspicious bulges on each side. He's wearing two suede shoes that almost perfectly match his cap. He just strikes me as a man named Sam.

The woman's the one I can't quite figure out. She's not very attractive, but tall, and thin. She has thin eyebrows, and very dark hair. It looks almost black where she's standing. She probabally argues with her husband about the price of tinto's, or salt, or something. It's a very long dress. Her skin is very white, the mans is dark.

There's only two others sitting on the benches. A woman with a two year old daughter, and an elderly man with a beat up homburg, pretending not to notice the child pulling at his shoe laces. Everyone else is standing. It's perfectly silent, save for the little girl, and the two lovers whispering to eachother. It's so quiet. You can just hear the high wistle on down the line. Everyones head turns left. Only the two lovers remain captivated in eachother. Even the child looks up from the old mans shoelaces.
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