Wednesday, November 12

Why I blog (a play in three parts)

This woman on the T, riding the Orange line to Forest Hills, reading The Colorist, a book I've never heard of but suddenly think I should have -- her hands are simply beautiful. A tattoo encircles her wrist, a trendy design, Celtic perhaps, but nonetheless I think of a crown of thorns, simultaneously thinking, 'But that's not right.' Her hair is curly and wild, with those two deliberate streaks of misplaced blonde on top. She reads through her black oval glasses, and her mouth is slightly open. A red scarf is wrapped tightly around her neck. A woman sits next to her who is not her companion and she, too, reads a book. Her hair is curly as well, but there is a deliberate look about her, maybe it is the small diamond stud of her nose ring, the hoop earrings, the red lipstick, the purple peasant skirt worn with hiking sneakers.

They both leave at Stony Brook, and I continue on.

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