A round-ish, bookish-looking woman in her early thirties and a handsome… little person I believe is the PC term, cuddling and canoodling on the subway train just past midnight, adorably, “embarrassingly” in love. I’m usually annoyed at kissy-face couples in public, but these two were just plain adorable and I was envious of their happiness.

Outside the Porter Square T station, a homeless black woman bundled in three jackets, her worldly possessions separated into a myriad of plastic grocery bags, stacked in a shopping cart.

A block away from my house, a small brown antique leather suitcase flipped open like a clam shell, a few shirts still inside, the whole thing appearing as though it had been kicked along the cement like a hockey puck.


On my bike ride home, Toots & The Maytals’ “Funky Kingston” came on my iPod and the song’s rhythm matched my own… I was tempted to keep riding until my legs got tired or the music that the Pod dished up stopped fitting–to suck in as much of this perfect spring night air as possible–but alas, this is Somerville, and past the end of my road, it’s much less straight, less placid, less momentum-worthy.

When I arrived home after riding to the end of my road and doubling back, there was a melancholy-looking boy, perhaps a year or two (or five) younger than me, with curly hair and a black leather jacket, sitting on my stoop with his head in his hands. You wouldn’t happen to be the guest of one of my roommates? I said. No, I was just sitting, the boy said. With that, he got up and begun to walk away. Feel free to sit, I said. But he didn’t. He swung his head around and gave me a puzzling look, then walked away.


~ by saltgirlspeaks on 22 April, 2007.

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