Happy Panic Productions

Writing is a process, not a progress.

Friday, July 11, 2003

 

On the train this morning


I packed up all my stuff and stood up before I took my monthly pass out of the clip on the seat in front of me. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed the old woman with the babushka across the aisle -- her eyes seemed locked on my pass. It must have looked as though I might leave it behind. Her lust for it was palpable -- she wanted me to leave it. I hope I'm wrong, I'd hate to infer bad motives about a complete stranger. But then again, she could have been a gypsy.

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