the smell of skunk
I was forced, for the second time this week, onto the next later train. This may have had something to do with the fact that I forgot to set my alarm clock last night.
As mentioned previously, there is something a little different about this train. For example, it is on this train, for the first time in my life, I witnessed a grown man doing needlepoint. Smartly dressed in a New England preppy sort of way, bearing a fat gold wedding band, and look that says, “what are you looking at,” as if he were shoeing a horse and not threading colorful strings through a dainty piece of cloth.
And the smell. I have always liked the faint smell of a skunk. I grew up in New England, and the memory of cool summer nights is made complete by a whiff of that pungent aroma. But apparently there is a skunk stuck to this car because we’re getting more than a whiff. That could happen on the earlier train, too, I suppose. I wouldn’t know if it did, because I missed that one.
On the slightly more pleasant side, a woman’s long hair can hypnotize me (briefly) and lo, there is a lovely, tall brunette in front of me with waist-length chestnut hair in a simple pony tail. Against her black sweater, with blue jeans, she looks like pure New England class. She checked me out, too. Now what do I do?
A beautiful sunrise sky on a pleasant fall morning. I would take my jacket off but for the big, wet, spot on the front of my shirt. It happened this morning in a dark kitchen when the sink-sprayer wouldn’t shut off, unbeknownst to me. Within a 5 foot radius of where I stood, many things got a shower, while I worked to slide the hose back into its lair.
As mentioned previously, there is something a little different about this train. For example, it is on this train, for the first time in my life, I witnessed a grown man doing needlepoint. Smartly dressed in a New England preppy sort of way, bearing a fat gold wedding band, and look that says, “what are you looking at,” as if he were shoeing a horse and not threading colorful strings through a dainty piece of cloth.
And the smell. I have always liked the faint smell of a skunk. I grew up in New England, and the memory of cool summer nights is made complete by a whiff of that pungent aroma. But apparently there is a skunk stuck to this car because we’re getting more than a whiff. That could happen on the earlier train, too, I suppose. I wouldn’t know if it did, because I missed that one.
On the slightly more pleasant side, a woman’s long hair can hypnotize me (briefly) and lo, there is a lovely, tall brunette in front of me with waist-length chestnut hair in a simple pony tail. Against her black sweater, with blue jeans, she looks like pure New England class. She checked me out, too. Now what do I do?
A beautiful sunrise sky on a pleasant fall morning. I would take my jacket off but for the big, wet, spot on the front of my shirt. It happened this morning in a dark kitchen when the sink-sprayer wouldn’t shut off, unbeknownst to me. Within a 5 foot radius of where I stood, many things got a shower, while I worked to slide the hose back into its lair.
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