So, the F train is running late. What do you do? One guy browses the music on his iPod. A young mother sits with her head in her hand. An older man screams into the intercom. Two women chat (note the amazing gold lamé bag!). Most folks just wait. I take this photo.
The temperature rises. The F train runs three storeys [edit: just caught this spelling error] underground; subway trains on the upper levels rumble above, giving us false hope.
The train arrives, 25 minutes late. Finally.