Yonge Line, Friday night, the only one who doesn't drink.

Asian male, 20s, with black-framed glasses and black hair growing out of its close shave, wearing a blue t-shirt with a decal that appears to be an ear? an inner ear? a lamb chop? Around him, a group of men are carrying on a conversation that has long dissolved into a fit of gestures and snorts, not so much laughter but the only tools they have left by which to communicate. In a word, they're loaded.

Frankenstein, Mary Shelley (Dover Pulbications)

About page 153:

"'Accursed creator! Why did you form a monster so hideous that even you turned from me in disgust? God, in pity, made man beautiful and alluring, after his own image, but my form is a filthy type of yours, more horrid even from the very resemblance. Satan had his companions, fellow-devils, to admire and encourage him, but I am solitary and abhorred.'"

He puts his knee against the back of the seat in front of him and rests his elbow on this thigh. Cupping his chin, he squints past his reflection, the flash and shimmer of tunnel darkness there, then gone. He sticks out his bottom lip and rolls his eyes upward, reaching up to finger the caulking of the window. He taps the glass, one finger at a time. Losing patience? Or, is he counting, among those he calls friends, how many he actually likes?