Sway

Rarely do I ride to work (or anywhere really) without the accompaniment of music, pumped through once-white wires at volumes most definitely damaging. I'm one of those people seeking removal from the commuter crush; hiding under black brims, sunglasses and headphones; tuning out the vapid chatter of bankers, ballers, tweens and queens.

Largely I succeed; a cornered New Yorker in black and navy; a hard shadow only identifiable as anything other by the tin frequencies that slip past the plastic in my ears. Watching me absently nod in time to this periodic hiss, my fellow commuters likely question: "rocking or retarded?"