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to hisself
Overslept this morning. Readjusting to the whole be-at-work-at-a-reasonable-hour thing. Still made it here on time, thanks to convenient pockets of empty road tucked into the endless march of morning rush hour. Even hit eighty-five once or twice.
On the commuter there was a fella dressed in sweatpants, a T-shirt, a satiny black jacket, a neon lime-colored hat. He kept talking to himself, and I kept thinking he was talking to me, kept turning to glance down at him only to find him staring at his reflection in the window, muttering, complaining. He got off at Union Station, forgot it was his stop til the doors were hissing shut, went running for em, stuck his foot out to catch em, slammed hard into both of em. The doors reopened, or maybe they just broke, and he got off and apologized to all of us with a flourish, and walked away looking sad, disoriented. Then started screaming at the top of his lungs, bending the hell out of his hat brim with two angry hands. I caught what he was saying as the commuter swished away, and I'm sure it made sense to someone. Just not me.
"Hail Mary, full of space, a touchdown pass and fuck you, too!" And then just a long yell that I never heard the end of.
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