A short story from a writing prompt. Originally posted July 7, 2014. There exists a woman, 27 years old, college educated, working an unfulfilling, low paying job. Take me through her day using the perspectives of people she encounters. The line is building. Mondays are always the same. I rub my fingers together, blow some warm air into my cupped hands while the printer does its work. The ticket shoots out.
"Here you are sir, have a nice day." I say. He manages a grunt of what I like to think is appreciation. Dressed in a nice suit with matching overcoat, shoulder-bag slung over one shoulder. Still too afraid to talk to the ticket seller. "Next please," I say. She smiles and walks up to the window. Her dark brown scarf is at odds with the blonde hair tucked into it. "Concession return to the city, please," she says. Her voice is sweet, but too trying. She's hiding a lie that she almost doesn't want to get away with. It's always the same. I don't know why they don't just use the ticket machines. "Could I see your concession card?" Her face drops slightly, but she catches herself before she thinks I'll notice, flicking the smile back on. It's just a mask. Her hand reaches into her purse, pulling out a student card. Even from here I can see that it's in an outdated style. She carefully places it on the ticket counter. I take it from her regardless. "I'm sorry miss, but this student card expired years ago." Now her depression seeps through. The smile is gone, but she isn't angry. She isn't upset. It's just the hope has been drained from her and she has nothing but to accept her fate. She doesn't say anything, she can't meet my eye. "I'm going to have to charge you full fare for this ticket. It'll be $7.60." She nods, and starts counting out the coins. Her hand hesitates as she goes to drop the coins into my outstretched hand. The coins clink down. The printer starts up, spits out a ticket. "Here you are miss," I say, letting a little regret seep into my tone. It'd be risking my job to sell a ticket at a reduced price to an invalid ticket. I'd like to help her out, but the system has to work. "Thanks," she manages a smile, before swinging around down towards the platform, her black boots following beneath her thick overcoat. There's a cough from the front of the line. "Next please."
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