Deep Pockets

The train was packed at rush hour. Trixie stood, sandwiched between a bulging duffel bag smelling of used socks and a slim laptop backpack. The track descended underground, sending her off balance. A strap hung above her, but she refused to remove her hands from her deep pockets. Her yellow cardigan was knitted especially for her purpose.

A crowded train offered plenty of opportunities; she just needed to look carefully and read body language. Who wore the tell-tale signs of distraction: shoulders slumped over a phone, foreheads pressed to the glass, vacant stares, or restless feet?

Trixie identified at least four people within arm’s length, ripe for picking. With a muttered “excuse me,” she pushed through the crush of luggage and took her place behind a woman on her phone, struggling to be heard over the sounds of the train.

“Yes, I know the policy, and I’m sorry,” the woman said, massaging her temple. “I couldn’t find last-minute coverage at work. I gave her Tylenol this morning, and she needs another dose before naptime—hello? Can you hear me? I’m on the train—"

The call disconnected as they rattled deeper underground. Tunnel lights flickered over the woman’s face. There were grooves worn into her skin from months of long workdays and even longer restless nights. She pushed her hand through her greasy hair and started a text message.

This was Trixie’s moment. The woman’s unzipped handbag was slung over the seatback, offering a partial view of its contents: wallet, keys, tissues, a granola bar.

With a tingle of anticipation, she brushed past the woman’s seat and dipped her fingers into her coat pocket.

It only took a fraction of a second, a nearly imperceptible invasion of space. The woman’s phone fell onto her lap. She closed her eyes and sighed. When she opened them, her face was clear and calm. A smile played around her lips.

Trixie’s hand returned to her cardigan pocket, now heavy with a knot of grief. Straining under its weight, she ran her fingers through the fibers. It was densely woven: individual threads of the woman’s fierce love for her child, fear of her illness, and remorse over outsourcing her care. It was a lot to carry, but Trixie could do it. It’s what any good person would do, and Trixie was determined to be good.

She didn’t have to look far to find her next subject. Two seats up and across the aisle, a tall man in an expensive suit stared out the window, studying his reflection in the glass. This man had something Trixie needed. His hair was dark with no strand out of place. Strong jaw muscles flexed beneath a precisely calculated amount of stubble. He fiddled with the crown of his luxury watch.

He was so taken with himself, he wouldn’t notice if Trixie swiped his pocket square, tied it on like a headscarf, and pranced down the aisle. She artfully brushed her fingers across his breast pocket and returned them to her cardigan.

Instead of his confidence, Trixie found the smooth planes of his insecurity. She traced the edges of the fragile shard, buffed and shaped by the dual forces of effort and anxiety. The corners were sharp.

Over her shoulder, she could sense the man stirring from his trance. He looked away from the window and blinked, fingers fumbling for the top button of his oxford shirt. Once unbuttoned, he relaxed into his seat. Satisfied, Trixie drifted away.

The train pulled into a station and a stream of people exited the car. Trixie gratefully sunk into an available seat. The two emotions were starting to take their toll. She studied the subway map above her, counting the number of stops until her destination. There were still four more stops, but she’d earned her rest.

She worked the contents of her pockets, squeezing them until they were smaller and more bearable. When she finally made some space for herself, a man collapsed into the seat next to her. He braced his elbows on his knees and cradled his head in his hands. Trixie sat straighter, stealing glances.

Though she was at her limit, her fingers would not be denied. It would be a simple and productive lift. His guilt was palpable, rolling off him in waves. He was so close, she’d hardly have to move. All she had to do was let the movement of the train bump his body against hers.

As the train rounded a curve, she leaned into him. Something encircled her wrist, kneading her flesh until her fingers were numb. Trixie gasped; she could not retreat to the safety of her pockets.

“What did you take from me?” the man demanded. His dark eyes poured over her, liquid as a pond on a moonless night.

Trixie struggled to her feet, breaking his grip. The train pulled into a station. It wasn’t her stop. She fled anyway.

“Wait—” he shouted after her. She bounded onto the platform, fist squeezed tight, cardigan whipping her hips with every stride. She didn’t stop until she heard the train depart.

Breathing heavily, Trixie opened her palm. Her flesh was seared, white welts peeling from heat and friction. A black stone rested in the center, impossibly dense despite its size. She tucked it into her pocket and staggered to the platform’s edge, searching for the next train.

“You seem to be carrying a lot that isn’t yours.”

Trixie turned to find the man seated on a bench. His hair was still mussed, shoulders rounded, but there was something lighter about him.

“There’s more where that came from, if you’re interested,” he said, dark eyes flashing in amusement. He stretched an arm across the seatback in invitation. “Come on, take what you need.”

Trixie stepped back from the platform. She joined him, leaving ample distance.

“I’m sorry to have startled you,” he said. “I hope I haven’t interrupted your commute.”

“You weren’t supposed to notice.”

“Why wouldn’t I notice someone trying to steal from me?” His hands roamed over his pockets. “I can’t figure out what you took, by the way.”

“It’s not stealing, it’s lifting. I take things that are too much for others to carry.” Trixie emptied her pockets between them: the tangle of grief, the shard of insecurity, and the stone of guilt.

She moved to sweep them back into her cardigan. He stopped her, taking her hand.

“What would happen if you left them here?”

A gust of wind swept the platform. His hand was warm; warmer than her pockets.

Trixie rested, held, without holding anything.