Tuesday, June 10, 2008

Holding it because I don’t trust that smell in the Metro car’s bathroom Monologue

He’s got a textbook. He’s got a thick paperback, something about Ireland. He’s got a newspaper. Looks like everyone is letting someone else do their writing and thinking today. Here’s another guy with a newspaper. Here’s a woman with a romance. He’s napping, and the rest are staring into blank space. I’ve got a marble composition book, in which I’m writing rather reading. Would the world be a better place if people wrote more on trains than they read, or am I just feeling defensive? Funny are the things that make me feel like a freak. Oh, wait! She’s coming along with a pen and paper… round paper… a paper cup. Of coffee. And it’s a straw, not a pen. Wait, wait, that girl has a book. Something called The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao, which is too thick to be brief at all… and which she is safely stowing overhead so that she won’t have to read a line of it. At least Ireland Guy was actually reading.

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