Once Fresh and in Season

He was agitated. You could tell by the way he rubbed his hands together. Kneading one over the other as if he were trying to clean them under a faucet. But they remained soiled, dirt under the nails, darkened around the knuckles. His knees bounced up and down on the seat, nervous dancers framing a duffel bag that sat between his work boots. Each time the doors opened to let passengers on and off, he scowled, but not at anyone—meaning it was directed towards everyone. Each one of us added to the heat growing under his collar. “Late. This train is always making me late, you idiots holding the doors.” He said loudly. Along with his fidgets, this made people take a step back from him. On the next rotation of his hands, he looked at his watch and panic spread his face wide. He bent over and unzipped the bag, and as he looked inside his knees went still. His eyes went wet. He plunged his hands down and pulled out a bunch of wilted asparagus. Though held together with a rubber band, the stalks splayed down in all directions, former spring soldiers now limp and suffocated. The man, a jilted bride, refusing to accept his future.