By Katherine McIntyre
Tonight was my third sleepless night in a row.
It started a couple days back when I noticed that man on the subway. I wasn’t attracted to him, so I don’t know why he stood out. Gimlet eyes didn’t help his appearance, and wrinkles stretched across his face like railroad tracks. He wore a gray suit with a dark green tie, and if he could’ve gotten any more nondescript, he’d have faded into the background. His black briefcase marked him as a suit while the slightly balding gray hair and lingering smell of mild soap painted this man as utterly normal. So uninteresting and yet every night since then I’ve watched him die.