Press of flesh

I don't mind small spaces, but am claustrophobic in crowds. Somehow I'd forgotten until last week's train ride in Japan on a major holiday. We cut the line, race to the car, successfully securing seats for the three of us. In seconds the car fills with 10x10x40 cubic feet of humanity. Small hands reach up at intervals to grasp plastic rings. At each successive station, small clumps of passengers somehow meld into this mass. My friend jokes about crushing accidents in football stadiums and I have only one comment: stop it. I try not to look around.

A phobic flutter in my stomach reminds me of this blog and my commitment to be creative. Inches from my nose a woman clenches her bag, her arm bent uncomfortably to keep the grip in so little space. Maybe she is tired? I catch her eye and wordlessly indicate my lap as a place to store her bag. As she lets the bag rest, we both exhale and smile. Somehow I feel more comfortable, somehow my personal space can encompass her and open precious room to breathe. Somehow this gesture has humanized the press of flesh.