I have no book, iPod, or newspaper, and none of the passengers on the subway inspire daydreams, so I focus on the empty seat to my left, on which is embedded an asterisk-shaped mark a few shades deeper than the orange of the seat itself.
The first thing I think is, “What, was Kurt Vonnegut here?” recalling his signature “asshole” drawing.
The second is, “Oh, look, someone was such a colossal asshole that he couldn’t help but leave his imprint behind. What a treat for a future ‘urban archaeologist’ to find this perfectly preserved asshole fossil.”
The third is, “Fosshole?”