Lucien

No one respects the substitute teacher. The placeholder. The person the kids see a few times each term. The one who reminds the real teacher why a cushy office job would’ve been the wiser career choice. Hell, I didn’t even respect myself. I was only doing this to stop Sandy getting full custody of Milly; to prove to the court that, while I wasn’t fit to be a lawyer anymore, I could still be trusted around kids. The students showed their contempt openly. The teachers in the staff room didn’t share their mugs. Waking up early, though — that was the worst part. Or so I thought.

The 6:31 train broke through the fog while I clutched a paperback and a thermos, which everyone assumed contained coffee. I ignored the conductor’s muffled instructions to stand behind the yellow line and hurried to the first row of the first carriage. Not because I wanted to be closer to the front, but because the ritual kept my tics at bay. It also faced a seat covered in graffiti. An unusual sight, as the other seats were pristine, but deciphering its text while sipping my Irish tea made the trip go by faster.

This time was different. The graffiti was gone and replaced with tartan upholstery, a stark contrast to the blue and yellow squiggles that covered every other seat. After a few moments, I saw an old mobile phone resting on the chair, as if camouflaged by the kilt it sat upon. A brick — a relic for this day and age — but state of the art in the nineties. The carriage was empty. Bored, and wondering if I still remembered how to play Snake, I slipped the fossil into my pocket for later.