Express down westside Manhattan

On the way down, the black woman next to me sitting upright as I was had a simple yet ornamental nail-paint design across each digit, as we rumbled down through the tunnels, my book in front on my lap, head down, and I noticed I liked her dark purple yarn head hat, still on, and like my fur heavy coat and belongings all over, covered, might have been driving her to the sleep that was coming to us. I heard her softly and cozy as at home in a dark room, the bed, rumbling snoring, and then I woke (saw that we were upright, again, and not on my side), and realized I was not in bed with her, this friend of mine, like we were having a slumber party.