A man stands at the magazine stand in the subway station. Standing, the man at the stand stands. The man stands surrounded by colors, multi-colors, extrava-colors. His bland darkish tones dully oppose the vividness around him. Glossies hang like fruits ready to be picked; it's as though a painter splattered acrylics, resulting in:

--Sharp letters warning of apocalypses, big bangs, tax hikes

--Celebrities slapped into poses, hair properly wild

--Abstract figures, art-deco designs, intimately close nature photos

--Women in skin, hands covering their secret parts, shy

The plainclothes behind the bottom layer of confused color moved adeptly, hands deft, graceful with a boxcutter. Shhhreet, shreet. A quarter followed by an eighth note. A fermata followed by a staccato. Seems so similar; is not. He slides, repeats. Shhhreeet, shreet. He cuts the front cover in half, right hand gently takes the top half and separates the banner-now its own entity-which joins the other individuals in unity. Piles of Newsdays are organized in front of him like a historical museum display.

A small crowd gathers to watch.

He glances up at the growing audience but remains unflappable. He removes a paper from the pile, pulls it to the middle of the counter. His left hand slices the midsection; the right hand rips off the top half; both hands then add the thin printed filo to the barely visible pile. A mini-conveyer belt for one. A microcosmic conveyer belt.

Once in a while, he restacks the little pile. A reorganization.

A little one balances on her tiptoes to see the pile of banners. The rest watch immobile, awed, though they feebly feign examining magazine covers. People. Time. Details. Self.

Peripheral vision, one of God's greatest gifts. The visual visual representation of the need to deceive, to suspect, to spy. The clay-brown hands move soundless, only the rip indicates an aural rhythm, a heartbeat. His glasses reflect light, the light also moves at a pace-left to right, east to west. It stops a few random times when he looks at his audience. Two look away, pretending, teasing, a preconscious game. One remains hypnotized, eyes following the wrinkled fingers. Mesmerized but apathetic. It is simply something to watch, something for the same tired eyes that watch television late at night on the worn fabric couch, before dozing off to sleep, alone.

The minutes pass, and I am restless. I am always restless after minutes pass. Correction. I am always restless after my awareness of minutes passed. I want a magazine. My wallet has just enough for something entertaining during the long ride home. Trains had broken down earlier, so the announcer said, so there is going to be a long wait, before the anticipated long ride. Lingering in stillness followed by lingering in motion. Which do I prefer? I could run to the other side to take the express train, which is already here, but it won't be leaving for a while. Or I could take my chances with the local, although I would be doubly increasing the ride time.

I choose: the express.

In the meantime, back to my desires. I step up to the counter, right before the man of perpetual motion, interrupting his pattern with my words.

I: Excuse me?

Concentration broken, the man behind the counter yelps. He must have seen me approach, but didn't expect me to speak. His left hand is in mid-slice; his right hand is positioned in preparation for the second rip. After I speak, his startled hand slips, cuts at a 45 degree angle, and carves into the soft webbing between the thumb and index finger of his right hand. A red liquid petal initially blossoms out of the gash. It uncurls in a beautiful delicate shape down the lines of his overworked hands. The flowering is followed by a cascading crimson waterfall flowing freely from the deepness of the cut, then the watery redness turns viscous, oozing vengefully. He watches until the dried blood forms a sticky veneer over parts of his hand. Then the wound returns to the owner: close to his chest, hidden by the other hand. The light from his glasses shines on the clasped palms. There is a pool of blood on the Newsday, over the business blue banner.

I cover my face with my own uncut hands.

Jennifer F. Estaris is pursuing her MFA in fiction at Columbia University. Please visit http://ione.freeshell.org to see ducks.