Yonge Line, averting.

Caucasian male, late 20s, blond goatee in stark contrast to black knit cap, black leather coat, black turtleneck and black pants. He rests the book in his lap, fanning it with one hand, the other keeping a protective hold on his computer bag.

Exile: The Dark Elf Trilogy, R.A. Salvatore (Wizards of the Coast)

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Jarlaxle's vest was sleeveless and cut so high that his slender and tightly muscled stomach was open for all to view. He kept a patch over one eye, though careful observers would understand it for ornamental, for Jarlaxle often shifted it from one eye to the other.

He looks at no one, his back pressed flat against his seat, face relaxed, jaw slack. The car tops up at each stop, rush hour, bags banging his knees. A glass bottle rolls down the aisle, clumsy around each pole like a drunk trying to walk a straight line. He's calm like a grenade, tucked safely inside until tripped. The car rocks a bend and the bottle veers onto a purposeful path toward him. Like a cloaked soldier, or your grandmother who could pluck pesky flies mid air, the evidence evaporating inside her powdery, lotioned hands, he raises his heavy boot, the bottle uncled until he damn well says so.