You’ve all had that moment. You’re on the train, coming home from a long, frustrating day at work or that night class you regret taking. You’re slumped over your seat listening to Alt-J or the new Yeah Yeah Yeahs single. You look around you at the faint squalor of the train; the lights on this car seem set to perpetual gray dusk, a metaphor for your mood you don’t appreciate. But then you look across from you and you see him sweating as he tears through a Saul Bellow novel you’ve always sworn to read or Gone Girl by Gillian Flynn.
Gone Girl, you wonder? Who is this man? Who gave him that? Is that a gift from a wife or girlfriend? Is he in a book club? Holy shit, that’s so hot.
You then begin to fantasize about this stranger on the train, what genres he’s into and…
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