by Subway Philosophy
The toilet smelled like fresh bile and mildew and her ex-lover, which was fine by her, she thought, as she wretched again. He was totally worthless. He cheated on her twice. He was a total schmuck, and anyway, she could give two fucking shits about him anymore. She hugged the porcelain, gently leaning her toes on the tiles and resting her head on the cold seat. She missed him.
Subway Philosophy doesn't really consider herself a writer; she scribbles in her notebook when she's got the time. Originally from the Hudson Valley, she currently lives in Manhattan where she recently left her job at a large publishing house to work for a popular magazine. You may see her on the 6 or the E. She's the one hunched over a moleskin, wearing oversized headphones. (If you see red hair and smell liquor, that's her. Feel free to offer a warm meal or a nice afternoon gimlet.)