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posted by Frances Donovan at 11:41 AM

There was a murder in the North End today. She sees the blue plastic body bags as she passes the tennis courts, sees a man with his back to her, handcuffs around his wrists.

She's rushing to get to work. She doesn't stop.
posted by Frances Donovan at 11:03 AM

He doesn't have time for the T anymore. He drives his car to work every day, even though it's only a 5-minute walk to the train. He hates the Green Line. He hates the cramped conditions and the sad look on the faces of the people. So what if he doesn't get to read the paper every morning? Who needs news when you can sleep in an extra 45 minutes?
posted by Frances Donovan at 12:53 PM

She's talking to her friends about the wedding, about the colors of the bridesmaids' dresses, about the flowers and the caterers. They've booked a church in Concord, and the reception will be at the yacht club.

Lola marvels that she can talk like this, as though nothing bad has ever happened in her life, as though getting married were the most natural thing in the world to do. She sees this woman's life as a shining continuation of parties. There was a christening, where they named her Mary Ann Elspath. There was a first holy communion, where they dressed her up in a parody of a wedding gown and sent her trundling down the aisle.

There was a sweet-sixteen party, with pink balloons and spin-the-bottle. There were keggers on the weekends when her parents weren't home, when they went away to Italy for their 20th anniversary. There was a six-month stint abroad in Ireland, tending bar at a local pub. There was her first apartment away from home, in the Back Bay, the security deposit supplied by her parents, by her father who works in financial services, and her mother who runs a non-profit day care in a "less fortunate" neighborhood.

Lola imagines this woman's life, and compares it to her own, despairing. She's not sure which she hates the more: that her childhood was so drastically different, or that her adult life has come to resemble this woman's.
posted by Frances Donovan at 8:29 AM

I get on a crowded Orange line at State, filled with airport travellers and high school kids. Listening and watching, the girls are talking about who they kissed and how far the kissing went... The boys sit there, looking bored, glancing at each other and shaking their heads. One of the louder girls gets up suddenly, and throws a water balloon out the closing door, hitting two girls and a very very angry young man, who immediately steps up to the train. The doors open again, and he starts shouting at the pitcher. She makes some harsh remarks about him and his mother, and slowly, most of the whites on this train visibly start moving away from the door. The young girl and her friends, and the people she hit are all African American... I stand there, smiling at the dichotomy. Kids are kids, though, and that's all this was. A childish prank that cost us several minutes on the train.
posted by Matt Latham at 6:06 AM

scruffy white boy
with a ring with the symbol of the bear
drug dealer or shaman?
posted by Frances Donovan at 7:19 AM

The younger man with the perfect hair always swaggers his way in. Everyone else rushes into place, and he swaggers. You know, hips moving, shoulders pivoting... swaggers. And he smiles the plastic smile, and laughs that fake laugh... that laugh you make when you want someone to know that you don't think it's funny. Exaggerated and deep. He's got all the right muscles in all the right places and the perfect skin, too. He'd be handsome if he didn't literally walk like a doll. Is he trying to attract women or repulse them? He strikes up a conversation with the girl in front of him. He'll be back again tomorrow, in his MBTA playset. Wind him up and watch him work.
posted by Matt Latham at 5:59 AM