"My son, he's sixteen, and my daughter, um," the woman thinks for a moment and wipes the back of her hand across her nose again, "she's eighteen, and neither of them went out and got their licenses right away, they just didn't, you know, feel compelled, like, 'Oh, I'm sixteen, I have to go get my license.'" She seems nice, but she's been talking like this, sort of nonstop, for the last five minutes.
Just then the train pulls up, and I imagine, with growing trepidation, having to spend the entire ride into Manhattan listening to this woman rattle on, when Katie, with a tilt of her head and an almost imperceptible widening of the eyes, says, "Scott, we have to be at the front of the train for our stop."
I feel a momentary guilt, and then relief, as I start running to the front with a backwards, "Sorry, gotta go!"
One year ago today: Dread Imaginings
Two years ago today: Thanks
Three years ago today: Back and Forth
Nine years ago today: 1-18-08 that which does not kill me or my city