Flash Fiction: Empty
©Birgit Buchart
I fucked someone else and now I had to get home. The street swarmed with nightgoers—gazes reflecting my indiscretion back at me. And shame rose hotly to the surface of my face, disclosing itself to anyone who looked.
Except nobody looked, nobody cared. This thing I’d done dissolved in the anonymity of the crowd.
But after shuffling down the steps and slipping through the doors, I found myself in an empty train car. There was only me, and in the brushed steel of the car’s interior, or scratched plastic windows through which the tunnel roared darkly past, my reflection.
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