You would hear more of them if you got closer to the platform, down the stairs. You'd be watching your feet, making sure that you weren't going to be stepping in something. Or on someone, as is the case. Then you would look up. Ahead. You'd see her bags on the side, the large white paper shopping bag, the handles sticking permanently up because of the amount of time that it's been held and the weight inside. And that store's just outside on the Avenue. These folks have been shopping for a while, and from the way they're dressed it looks like they frequent that store often enough.

With the echo in the stairs it's hard to make out what language they're speaking. It could be anything. All arguments sound the same anyway. A raise in volume, exasperation, exclamation. It's just a matter of how far do they want it raised. Are they prone to get physical? That's what you are really worried about. It only takes a single incident to make someone paranoid. You remember some time ago when the kid next to you drew the gun. He was just threatening the other kids on the platform. Didn't say much, just came up, cursed quietly, pushed the boy in the shoulder and pulled that polished chrome .45 out from his waistband and pointed it. He started cursing them out. You were well away at that point, going in the other direction. Very fast. "Always check for the emergency exits," is what you're told to do when you travel. You consider it good advice. The question is will this be a time where you need to know where the exits are?

"Hey?" he asks of her, moving and pacing around. "Why are you standing around here? Are you coming?" It's more of a plea than a question. To you, he sounds and looks urged on by something, confirmed by his gestures toward the other end of the platform. He is straining at an invisible leash that ties both together.

It's clear that no one else shares the same sense of urgency. So there's nothing that you should be worried about at this point. Not now, anyway. It is unlikely, though, that this couple is going to do any damage to others or themselves. Physically, at least.

She has her face pointed down in a paperback book. You wonder how she can read down here with the flashing fluorescent lights above (the ones that each station apparently must have by law).

She does not look up. She contains and clips her words. "My legs are tired. I'm standing here."

"But there's a bench down there. And there are no people on it now. If you come along, you can sit down there. A bench without people. C'mon." He turns to go. She does not look away from her book. His pitch has not sold the customer.

He starts down toward the other end of the platform for only a few steps before looking back. He stops and twists his face with displeasure, muttering under his breath with little doubt of what it is that he says. He walks up slowly to her. "Why?" he asks, punctuating the question with a flap of his arms. "Why do you gotta be like this now?"

She's incredulous now; her voice is crisp and louder. "Because I am tired of walking, and there's no seats here." She finishes this with a broad wave of her book.

He raises his own voice accordingly, sharpening the tone. "There are seats down there."

"But I'm not walking."

You remember this loop, this logic that's presented. You know that there's no response to this. And you're thankful that this is not your life being played out for others to watch. "You know, I musta been somewhere else with a completely different person who looks exactly like you. We were having a great time until you showed up."

The tunnels repeat each word he accents. The people on the other platform can hear it around the columns. Up the stairs it's thrown, to become the dull noise of the city. You start moving down away from the entrance, and from the couple. You know there's no problem, but you'd rather not stay here to confirm this.

You can't see her, but she starts up again. "What's so important about going down there anyway?"

He states authoritatively, "It's where we need to get out."

"Why?"

"What?"

"Why do we need to get out there?"

"Because that's where the stairs will be where we get off."

"So?"

"What do you mean so? That's where we need to be!"

"Why?"

"Because if you don't do that you have to deal with the people trying to get out. And they don't know how! It's like they've just learned how to walk!"

"Why do you need to be in such a rush?"

You can't hear what his answer is for that last question. Their snipes become a murmur as you move past the stairs in the middle of the platform. There's the bench, as promised. There's no strobing dead grey manufactured light flashing over the platform down here. And there are seats available. None of the subways many unique and mostly identifiable smells are present. Nothing's on the seats, either. You sit. You think you hear something from where you came about too many people. You know how that can be. The last comment still rings on in the air, but no new noise is in the air. Maybe they left. The tension seems to be ebbing.

She breaks the peace with, "Yeah, I know. Frankly, it's a little disturbing." She makes it loud enough so that everyone can understand her position on his argument, in case anyone was listening in.

"Look, just come down to the bench. Just halfway down, not to the end, not to where we should be. You can sit. Read your book. No more walking after that."

There is quiet.

There is a bag being rustled and moved. There is something being thrown into a bag. The bag is being lifted. The bag crinkles in regular time as it swings and hits her leg. Every pace is metered, ticking closer to you. By the time the two emerge from behind the staircase the bench has filled up with others not so indecisive on moving on down the platform. You see him trying to keep this one quiet. He has no need to make a bad situation worse with some comment. She does not change her expression of exhaustion. She moves behind you and stands there. It is the same pose that she had at the entrance. Same position, too. She sighs for effect. And it affects him. Like the slow opening hiss of a valve on a tank of a pressurized gas, he asks of her, "What the hell is the problem with being where we have to be anyway?"

"What?"

"We've got time before the train arrives. Why not get to where we are going to now? Then we can get out of the station faster. Catch the elevator at Court Street. Could be a few minutes."

"Well so what if it is? What if it is a few minutes? Are you in some sort of hurry?"

"Why the hell not?"

You could stand up now and just walk to another spot on the platform. You could give up the seat and let her have it. Would she take it? She says her legs are tired. How are your legs? Isn't this first-come-first-served anyway? They continue to snip at each other, their sounds overpowered by the train that arrives, seemingly by accident. You see yourself heading further down toward the back of the train to be away from them. You realize that this is where he wanted to be with her. This is about where they will be getting off. And out. The car is almost empty. You can sit again. Lots of room on either side. As the train pulls out, you can see that the couple isn't on the platform. Maybe if you hurry when the train stops at your station, you'll be able to get out ahead of them.

M. Sleap lives on the N and R lines.