A nameless sardine struggling to find a tiny bit of existential space amongst the tons of different shapes and sizes of its compatriots in a tomato sauce-filled can. The image that inevitably formed in my mind's eye as I stepped into the evening rushhour.

Trying my best not to stick my elbow into anyone's face, I reached into my bag for my book. One which I'd at first skeptically dismissed as 'too girly'. (With a corny title like 'The shape of my heart', who wouldn't?) But, for lack of a better choice, I'd grudgingly picked it up off the pile of books my cousin gave us. I hadn't expected it to take me into the characters' lives, tease out wry smiles with the witty remarks they make and from time to time, I catch myself just in time before my laugh burst out in snots. Now I find myself having to pry the book out of my fingers when putting it down.

Moving into the cabin, my concentration broken, I looked up and spied my reflection in the dark glass window. I stare at my longish hair, remembering how much I've wanted it snipped off recently. It doesn't look too bad sometimes, I thought, twisting the ends around my fingers. I've been oscillating between states of an utter impatience to get it cut short and a lingering hesitation of missing my locks. Ah, decisions... and their consequences...

I bit lightly on my lower lip, an unconscious habit of mine when the mind's chugging along, still tasting the macchiato I'd gulped down just before I left the office in an attempt to force my eyes open and wake my sleeping muscles up. Closing my eyes for a couple of seconds I tried to prepare myself mentally for the gruelling spinning class ahead.
*Ding Dong*
Ok, time to get sweaty!