The Last Seat on the Streetcar

The streetcar lurches from the stop, packed shoulder to shoulder, and a man in paint-stained overalls stands to give his seat to a woman balancing groceries and a sleeping toddler. Nobody speaks. She nods once. He grips the pole and studies the passing storefronts, as though standing was his plan all along. This is the city’s quiet bargain, struck a thousand times a day between strangers who will never learn each other’s names. We complain about the delays, the heat, the bell. Then someone gets up. The doors sigh open at the next stop, and the ride becomes a neighbourhood.