Running Late, As Usual

They huddled together, in the bus stop. Their boots and coats and hair dripping, passing a soggy cigarette between them and ignoring the pointed stares of the woman in the purple pants surrounded by plastic grocery bags. As though they were a fairy ring.

“Everyone makes the same face when walking in the rain,” the one on the left said. “Brows creased, frowning, chin tucked. Like teenagers stomping off after being told to clean their rooms.”

The one on the right laughed, choking on the inhaled smoke.

“That was me. But I grew out of that ugliness. Well, I hope.”


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