Yesterday morning 7:30 am, waiting for the train to work - a portrait in words
So A**** drops me off at the train station near her job there around seven-thrity in the morning and we haven’t really had any breakfast save for the handful of Lindt tablets her sister brought over from Canada last weekend.
A black man in dreadlocks and khakis selling assorted candies by the turnstiles has his radio on at full volume and it’s playing some dreadful reggae music which I think must be Bob Marley’s but upon thinking it over it’s probably just bias speaking here. A plump but rather hot girl with a bad platinum-blonde dye-job passes me by; it takes me a full ten seconds to decide I probably wouldn’t go to bed with her because most girls at the train station seem kind of filthy save for that one brunette I met in late ’04, but that I wouldn’t really have any qualms of jerk*ng off thinking of the blonde anyway.
The book in my hands is a collection of early-1900s short stories by American writer Edith Wharton, only this time the stories are ghost stories: You know, that whole New England turn-of-the-century ghost story about the hauntings of the ghosts of the recently departed, and so on. It seems I’ve been holding that book for all eternity and perennially falling short of passing page 200. I think of the mile-high book stack over my nightstand, every book marked reading pending for what feels like a hundred years, and shrug.
By the time the train leaves the station some ten minutes later it’s packed like a boxcar full of cattle but I manage to find myself a seat anyway. Edith Wharton rambles on about the hauntings of the ghosts of the recently departed yet somehow I’m still stuck short of page 200.
The aftertaste of the fancy Swiss chocolate mingles with that of A****’s toothpaste in my mouth, and I’d probably kill for a cup of coffee right now: No sugar, no cream, the medium-sized plastic cup left off to cool down to room temperature over by the sink in the kitchen at the office just a few more minutes away…
A black man in dreadlocks and khakis selling assorted candies by the turnstiles has his radio on at full volume and it’s playing some dreadful reggae music which I think must be Bob Marley’s but upon thinking it over it’s probably just bias speaking here. A plump but rather hot girl with a bad platinum-blonde dye-job passes me by; it takes me a full ten seconds to decide I probably wouldn’t go to bed with her because most girls at the train station seem kind of filthy save for that one brunette I met in late ’04, but that I wouldn’t really have any qualms of jerk*ng off thinking of the blonde anyway.
The book in my hands is a collection of early-1900s short stories by American writer Edith Wharton, only this time the stories are ghost stories: You know, that whole New England turn-of-the-century ghost story about the hauntings of the ghosts of the recently departed, and so on. It seems I’ve been holding that book for all eternity and perennially falling short of passing page 200. I think of the mile-high book stack over my nightstand, every book marked reading pending for what feels like a hundred years, and shrug.
By the time the train leaves the station some ten minutes later it’s packed like a boxcar full of cattle but I manage to find myself a seat anyway. Edith Wharton rambles on about the hauntings of the ghosts of the recently departed yet somehow I’m still stuck short of page 200.
The aftertaste of the fancy Swiss chocolate mingles with that of A****’s toothpaste in my mouth, and I’d probably kill for a cup of coffee right now: No sugar, no cream, the medium-sized plastic cup left off to cool down to room temperature over by the sink in the kitchen at the office just a few more minutes away…
posted by 186282mps at 7:56 AM
<< Home