The pretty girl in the too-tight pants and green St. Patrick’s day shirt is crying her eyes out, and has been for twenty minutes. It’s 9:21pm, and I’m on the train home from New York City, where I had one heck of a meeting with my friend and mentor about life, where I’m at, and where I’m going.
She walked to the doorway of the train, talking on her cellphone. It’s a polite move (instead of sitting in her seat, and talking), one I wish more people would do. I didn’t know she was crying for several minutes. Horrible voyeur that I am, I shut my music off so I could hear what was upsetting her. But I couldn’t make it out, and didn’t want to spend a lot of time trying.
I thought she had left, but I just heard her crying again. Medium sobs. Pretty sobs, in a way. And now I can see her black leather shoe and the edge of her jeans: she sat down on the floor of the entranceway.
She’s somewhere between 18 and 22 years old. What could be troubling her? Young love gone bad? Social ostracism? So many things can feel so intense when you’re young.
Ah, well. She just moved to the seat across from me, and she’s actually being quite foul-mouthed and angry and derisive. And, I think, more than a little drunk.
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