The bundled man hurries onto the train. Sloppily scooting through the aisle, dangling his umbrella from his wrist. Wet nylon droops from its spokes and the umbrella spins. The floor is wet, water in the ridges, and the bundled man slips slightly, skimming the teenager in the seat in front of him. The umbrella spits and splatters the back of the kid's neck. "Sorry," I hear the man say. I hear him say this from the other side of the train. But the kid can’t hear him, not from a foot away, because he's plugged into his iPod, which I can also hear from the other side of the train. The look of adolescent disdain on the kid's face is wasted as the man sits down behind him, oblivious.

Slowly, the kid reaches up and flips the droplets off his neck with the back of his hand. Flip. Flip.

More riders tumble onto the train. The aisle fills with dripping wool coats, and I adjust my bags to keep from getting soggy. In the process, I bang my bag into the woman seated next to me, hitting her purse. Reflexively I say, "Sorry." And the woman, also plugged into her iPod, hears me, recognizes my gesture at least, and without the effort of air behind her words, mouths, "It's okay." But it's obviously not okay because I hear her sigh a put-out sigh and clutch her purse as tightly as she purses her lips.

My discarded apology flutters to the floor, and the standing passengers grind it into bits beneath their feet.

No one can hear anyone anymore, I think. iPods, cell phones, bluetooths (or is it blueteeth if it's plural?). All of us putting plastic up against our ears, or shoving it down inside, a barrier between our eardrums and another being's voice. Yeah technology, more ways to communicate, to stay in touch, to be connected. Whatever. Screw it, I think, pulling out my iPod and plugging in.

At Fullerton, the woman next to me tries to squish past. I don't notice that she wants out because I have my music up loud. I barely have time to move my knees let alone stand, and her adult disdain isn't wasted on me.

Once she's gone I get a new seatmate. He's soaking wet, denim darker from the shins down. Rain rolls down his leather jacket and I follow the beads as they travel the length of his sleeve. He's holding a Palm Centro, like mine, but black, and typing furiously, thumbs tap dancing on the tiny keys. I assume he's playing a game, Tetris or Bejeweled, and think, yep, just another way we disconnect. But then I get a good look at his screen.

I smile when I read the subject line — Re: Apology.

kimberlee soo