Train stories: Hick

A sad woman lost to herself sits next to me, and I don't know how when or how I'll tell her to move, but I know why. Her escapes and by-no-means-purifying catharses are seeping into the senses of those whom she surrounds.
The children one seat back can smell her cigarette breaks in the train car's bathroom (though their mother smokes, so I doubt they'll notice). The Red Dog can she pulls from her bag and cracks between her thighs makes me wonder how long she can go without drinking. Makes me wonder how long it's been since she'd been content and sober.
Her attempts at small talk with me, interjected with coughs and hawks hither and thither, make me question how far she allowed her education to go, and whether or not she's ever discussed more than the weather with anyone. I don't mean to sound so pretentious and lofty, but when you're stuck answering "So how about Britney shaving her head-what the hell was that?," it's arduous to agreeably assert that she's an avid thinker.

A Muslim woman walks past and she had to remark "looka that get-up!" nudging my elbow with her own--boney--as if she were a happy uncle of mine. She is not a happy uncle of mine.
I only smiled and nodded, doing as little as possible to cause any sort of advancement on what could potentially be a confusing and/or prejudiced conversation for her, and phantomly responded "It's not a "get-up," as you say, but a head scarf or hijab, I think, symbolic in the Muslim faith of obedience to God and appreciating women beside thei--you're not even caring, are you?"

She got on at Stop A and--an hour later--left for Stop B.
In that time she downed 3 beers she had brought on with her and pulled five cancerstick breaks.

Sometimes, I love America.