Story Of How I Nearly Puked On The Subway

The bile rises in my throat, sweat curves around my ear and drips down my neck, there’s nothing strange about bad smells on the subway (the other day I endured the silent burps of a man who had only moments before devoured a rank platter of kimchi for breakfast), but my sickness has increased my sensitivity to everything horrible and disgusting, and a vapor of foul odors is pouring off the man, woman, or creature, who is sitting beside me. I cover my mouth, close my eyes, and contemplate the possibility that I will spew all over everyone; when we finally arrive at my stop I haul myself up and stagger out onto the platform, still involuntarily covering my mouth while wishing there were more public trash cans in Korea; I think of losing my lunch on the tracks; an ajuma shoves past me, indifferent to my crisis, and an old man with swaying arms is running very slowly toward the elevator.

I can’t believe I made it, but I did.

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