I am riding on the train.

A man in a Cal sweatshirt sits diagonal from me.

He asks, are you from here?

I say, yeah, I’m from here, I was born in this train car, I’ve lived here all my life.

I thought he was going to leave me alone, but then he asked, after a few minutes,

Is that an iPhone?

(Obviously, it was an iPhone, and I’ve finally stopped being self-conscious using it, I mean it was a gift, and besides I waited years before getting one, and it’s not a 4s or anything, and, like, there are plenty of other expensive things I don’t own, most of my clothes are from Goodwill – that’s a lie, but, most of the clothes I own that I wear are from Goodwill, so – I don’t own designer purses or shoes, I never buy new underwear until the ones that I have actually come undone, like I have this one pair where the lace has separated almost completely from the cotton, which is so sexy in a ragged way.)

I said yes.

Do you like it? he asked.

I shrugged and said eh, which is how I respond to a lot of things. I generally do not know what to say to people. Like there was a lesson I missed once at school that taught everybody how to interact. I am riding the train to my therapist. We talk sometimes about how I feel inferior, how I sense that anyone who interacts with me is doing so out of pity. Maybe this is true. I don’t know.

The man in the Cal sweatshirt gets off the train. That’s a lie. He’s still on the train, but I don’t feel like writing about him anymore, so he might as well have gotten off.