The train at night is different. The exhaustion is different. In the morning it’s a cranky uncaffeinated bone deep tiredness. At 8:45 pm it’s the soul sucking despondency of having survived another day in a city that is eating at your soul while still dazzling and delighting you. It’s mostly empty and there are wide spaces between each passenger. Everyone has a seat and no one is touching. We are safer and more vulnerable all at once. Safer for the distance and quiet. Vulnerable for the lack of anonymity. This is the time when you look up and see the man across from you is rubbing one out while staring at you, or when some man thinks a trans woman has looked at him too long and starts shouting at her, this is when a homeless man will shout people off the train. It can either be calming or nerve wracking. Right now, with my headphones in, wearing a tank top that probably shows enough cleavage for some random asshole to think it’s okay to say or do something, I feel a dangerous tranquility that means I am wearing my murder face, which means I feel pretty damn safe.