around washington and 20th street.

A father and his three children get on. The father is morbidly obese with greasy hair tied back into a ponytail, and black crucifix tattoos all down his arms. His face is harsh- he could have been a cholo when he was young. The children follow him like ducks, looking like they just stepped out of church, the girls in their Sunday best and patent leather shoes, the son dressed neatly as his father's miniature. I don't hear what they say because my headphones are firmly in place and the beefy American is still questioning the student.

I mean to ignore them and stare out the window, but the youngest girl sits next to me and I can't help but look at her- she can't be more than five years old. I've never been the sort to fawn over little children, but my lacking maternal instinct kicks in at the sight of her perfect braided pigtails. I want to touch her smooth black hair and tell her how pretty she looks in her blue sun dress, how there could be nothing more precious in the world than the little leather bows on her shoes. I don't do any of this, of course. I simply smile at her once and then gaze out the window. I catch her staring at the embroidered roses on my shoes.