He’s so pretty. Small but pretty. Every day I see him on the train and wonder if he feels bad about being small.
Leonardo DiCaprio, but far more handsome. That’s what he looks like. Glasses, black rimmed, and relatively introverted.
I have yet been able to tell if he has a ring on his left hand. Probably. He’s sitting across from me, a little off to the right, beyond a metal and air barrier.
He’s got a wonderful blue suit on. Classy snazzy. Someone dresses him well. Maybe him?
The gentleman on my right flips through papers, stapled together in the upper left, and with lines double spaced. The papers sit in an open brief case on his lap. His hair is receding. Professor. English Professor? That’s my guess. Very long lines, his fingers. Looks like a distant cousin of John Cleese.
My right finger hurts. I’m getting old. I can see it curve further towards my middle finger over the months. My real aging, meaning the noticeable kind, started when I was 34. Pretty certain it’s down hill after this. Can we reverse the hill?
The deaf people are below me. They used to throw me off. Because, you see, they make sounds, which they can not hear, while they “talk”. And by talk of course I mean sign. They sign with the greatest animation; they are the same as you and me! A life filled with vibrancy, but no audio. They are all African American.
The wheels squeak. Train stops. I’m supposed to be writing my questions for the new doc I meet tomorrow. A new doc. Never thought I’d say those words. Why do I see so many docs? They just take my money and make me cry and the pain I came in the door with I leave with.
I can see my sneakers stick out over the railing; I’m in the upstairs of the double-decker train, last car, end of a long day at work, the gym, the night is here.
I’m going to go write my questions for the doc. Maybe she will heal me! A far younger version of myself would have thrown a wad of paper at the blue-suited man of perfection. Maybe another day.