At the bus stop an older man looks at me and we say hello.
“How are you?” I ask.
“Fine, thank you, but my arm is swollen.” He rubs his left arm and stares off into the distance. “I think it’s gout.”
* * * * *A young man covered in tattoos (“562,” skulls, a web on both arms with a Shelob-like spider, others that I can’t recall) entered the train, sprawled in his seat and noticed a young woman seated across the aisle.
She was in the process of scraping off fluorescent orange from her nails.
“Do you know about the great stuff that comes in bottles and takes that stuff right off your nails…, nail polish remover?” he said in a droll manner.
“Yeah, I’ve heard of it,” she replied.
