Thursday, June 5, 2008

Dear NYC,

I was sitting on a park bench eating a ham sandwich, when I noticed that the woman sitting across from me was nearing the end of a novel; mouth agape, eyeballs frantic. She only had a small pinch of pages left, so I waited for her to finish because I wanted to see the expression on her face when she turned the back-cover closed. While I waited and chewed, I thought about the emotions I conjure when reaching the end of a novel, and concluded that it's usually a melancholy experience. I re-focused on my lunchtime friend, who was now tracing the words line by line with her finger. Seeing her do this made me feel anxious with anticipation. I suddenly felt unprepared to see the effects of a story's end happen across her face. I didn't want to be the first representation of 'real' when her glance left her lap. I quickly gathered my belongings and hurried along leaving her in rapture. When I got several steps away I turned to look back and saw as she sneezed into the book's open pages. I sighed relief and continued back to work, saved.

The Woobs

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