When you live in a society, the subject of what we owe each other often comes up. Beyond the confines of our own nuclear family, there is a call from the local community. But you have to listen.
Last night, on the way home from work, I was faced with a dilemma. New Yorkers rarely address each other in the subway, not even to say excuse me. They prefer to move silently past. Noise of any kind can be interpreted as a warning sign, a redder flag.
I saw a man falling asleep and clutching his fingers, turning purple like tiny, purples sausages. I watched as the blood left his digits, wondering if I should step and intervene. He woke up, shook his extremities free and let things reanimate into a hue of pale beige. As he stretched out, I was left with the question: should I have done more? Should I have helped him avoid a dark knuckle blue?
I figured that someone else would get involved and maybe it was this thing. The last thing I would want is to get in the way of a narcoleptic and his fetish.
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