She offered a weak smile, but nobody wanted it.
She looked down after that, had her thumbs fight each other. Their heads knocked around. She looked around the train and cast another weak smile. It did not take. The fish were not biting; they were already sitting, hook in mouth, at the mercy of little screens and big screens and plastic plugs for your ears. Nobody read on the train anymore. Why was that? She remembered when people read. All of the hunched backs over paper, their minds making fabulous stories to tell themselves. What a lovely thing, books were. She handed out a weak smile. A man looked up at her warily, but was uninterested by the offer. She looked down again, thumbs wrestling. One of them gained traction over the other and the oily residue of her fingerprint smeared the polished nail. Her fingerprint was a swirling void, a meaningless collection of lines she kept with her to smear over other things. Marking territory, perhaps. She held the weak smile this time in her hands and pushed them outwards, begging for someone to carry it for her. But the little screens and the big screens did nothing to alert the creatures behind them, and she was surrounded by automatons.