A Spilled Cup on the No. 1 Train

Dear Diary:

It was a busy Monday morning, that kind of day where you’re half-awake and half-asleep, and you feel kind of numb, and every movement feels tingly and annoying, and you’re lucky that you’re able to push your way into the No. 1 train car.

I yawned. I wasn’t fully awake, as an early school schedule does not allow for dawdling and snooze buttons. I noticed steam beginning to form on the window in a circle. The air smelled of coffee and sweat. Suddenly, a woman let out a small shriek, but most in the car were too busy fumbling with their iPhones to notice.

“My dress, my dress, my dress, my dress!” she repeated, grabbing on to the ends of her expensive-looking, body-hugging white dress. A thick, brownish liquid formed an egg-shaped stain, dripping off the end of the cloth. A pool formed there, the liquid encompassing her white high-heeled shoes, staining them likewise. Next to her stood a tall man, unmoving man, holding a tilted cup, empty but still dripping with the last of his beverage.

Then, the woman turned into a tornado of fury and brown stain.

“WHY THE [expletive deleted] WEREN’T YOU CAREFUL WITH YOUR [expletive deleted] COFFEE? THIS IS A [expletive deleted] TRAIN! YOU KNOW TO HOLD IT BETTER THAN THAT! I HAVE A [expletive deleted] INTERVIEW, YOU [expletive deleted] KNOW!” she wails.

As the brakes started to squeal and the train entered 79th Street, the tall man smugly motioned to get off the train.

“It’s tea, not coffee, you know.”

Read all recent entries and our updated submissions guidelines. Reach us via email diary@nytimes.com or follow @NYTMetro on Twitter using the hashtag #MetDiary.