Paul sighed, looking at the vomit with distaste. This had been one of his more comfortable pairs of pants, a garment that had served him well for years now. No doubt the stain would not come out. But one could try. He removed the trousers and, using the water from the bathroom sink, began to scrub at the spot. For the first time, he cursed wearing easily discolored cloth.
As Paul scrubbed, he thought back to the redheaded man in the train. If he was an epileptic, why did the man ride at all? Was he so new to underground transit that the idea of lights flying by outside hadn't been considered?
The vomit began to smell and Paul glared at the offending splotch. The look, he realized, was similar to that that the woman across the car had been giving him. What was her problem? Then again, why had she, who obviously noticed that the man was an epileptic, not taken action earlier? It took the man with the belt to actually do anything.
Paul gave up on the vomit stain, his mind wandering a litt