The sound of a rubik's cube. It's coming from the young man sitting across from me . He is a striking young Asian man, strongly developed triceps, biceps. His tee shirt hugs his torso. He listens to his Ipod, never looking up, focusing on the business at hand. He holds a rubik's cube between his hands. The sounds of the cube being manipulated strike me like a laser burning through my outer cortical material , leaving behind a slight burning smell that seeps out of my cranial cavity. I know that sound. It's freshly baked bread, aisles of unopened cereal boxes, cold sheets on an autumn night, the rumble of engine reborn.
He solves the cube in about a minute. Then he mixes up the sides again. Starts over. The few riders in the subway car look over occasionally. This is the 7 train, man. We do this every day.
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