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His eyes are watery, his face drawn and sagging, cheeks stubbled with two days of growth. Maybe he is growing a beard, he's just started and it's still scraggly and far from full. Or maybe his looks don't matter to him, he cares more about comfort, or he's given up. But he gives no further sign of giving up; his skin is florid and lively, not pale, and he talks easily, with quiet energy, to his two companions. Two women, middle-aged or later like him, and the three talk with the warmth of those who have known each other for years, riding the train every day, knowing each other so well, though perhaps nowhere other than here, nowhere outside of the confines of this train car.

February 17, 2015 in Chicago Observations | Permalink


That is beautiful.

Posted by: Marie at Feb 17, 2015 10:01:55 PM

Really love this. And the other pieces here on your blog.

Would love to see some of your work on Prose! I know the readers and writers would enjoy reading your pieces.


Either way, awesome writing!

Posted by: jordan at Feb 19, 2015 4:11:59 PM