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Sometimes it's just like that, you are positive you exist and yet, somehow, you can not be sure you are not invisible. Silent, moving down the street does not confirm your presence; headphones do not ensure that you are seen. You could be silently gliding through a mass of life that sees right through you, transparent and dying for no extreme reason other than it's Thursday night and you're tired.

The train was full, but not too full that I could not slide myself into a space between two big people, spilling over the edges of their subway bucketed seats. This is what I did, hid myself between the security of large people, confirming that I could, indeed, disappear safely.

He was sitting across from me, bald head shiny and gold earring in one ear. Mr Clean, or somesuch reincarnation thereof. And he winked. He could see me, of this I was positive.

The train ground into the station and the warm buffer to my left lumbered to his feet. Exposed, I winced and bent in further on myself. This happens. You can hide yourself if you hunch enough, if you wrap your arms around your shivering body.

Mr. Clean watched the panic flit across my face (as I'm sure it must have), and kept his face steady: sure stable eye contact. Of this I am grateful, this solid assurance for the 10 long seconds it took for another large person to stuff into the vacant seat.

The train filled up and he was hidden by lots and lots of feet. I focused on the woven pants leg in front of me, arms tucked under heavy arms on either side, bag protecting my lap. When I got off the train, I glanced back through the window to see Mr. Clean's triumphant arm raised, waving to me as his car slid away.

Fleeting contact with strangers is extremely underrated.