So there I was. 6:42am. Three other commuters and myself on an otherwise empty train, like four little islands surrounded by a sea of vacant seats. Sitting. Reading. Crossword puzzling. Enjoying that sprawling expanse of space that was made possible by all those empty seats around us. R   o   o   m. A wonderful buffer zone between us and the bags, legs, elbows and coffee cups of another commuter. “Next stop is Ridgewood.” I hardly even noticed we were stopping, being so deeply immersed in my Siggi’s Blueberry yogurt with 0% milk fat. Suddenly, the silence, the solace, the yogurt paradise is broken…by a big, brown, suitcase-like bag slammed into my half of the middle seat, followed closely by the owner of that bag flopping into the third seat in my row. Boom. In an instant, my cocoon of space was gone. So, why this particular seat? Of all the other empty seats? Of all the possible seating options? I can only think of one reason. Communtitus Lonelyitus. Commuter loneliness. The desperate need to sit next to someone else, even when most of the train is empty. The fear that, if they were to sit by themselves, they wouldn’t know what to do with all that extra room. Was it a strange form of agoraphobia? Could it be the angst that forces someone afflicted with this disease to curl up in a fetal position and die if they didn’t have another commuter sitting right next to them? So, in order to avoid that eventuality, he sits next to me.  If this behavior was disease related, I’d be more forgiving. But I couldn’t help but think, “Dude, what station are you, and your big, brown bag, getting off?”