Staring contest

There was a boy, eight years-old or thereabout, on the train today. He leaned into his grandmother, who wrapped her arm around him, and he stared at me in the seat across the aisle, struggling with my coffee, my newspapers, my backpack, my umbrella. He was serious, direct, world-weary even. I looked right at him, and still he stared. And I stared. And he stared. I looked away and thought: how strange.

I read my paper: American Idol rocker kicked off last night, abortion pill may not be cause of killer bacteria, U.S. on the outs with Russia, it seems. I looked up again. He stared. I stared. He stared. I read my paper. United flying out of town? Woman falls seven floors hours after released by Chi police, commissioner investigating claims of parents who say they asked police to hold her until someone could meet the emotionally unstable woman.

The grandmother got up, tugging the boy with her. I looked at him. He looked at me. I smiled. He smiled. One small gray glove emblazoned with the word "basketball" clutched the grandmother's hand. The other he half-raised and he waved.