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Trying to fight the grey day and the grey skies on Monday morning, I drop the humid laundry bags off and race from laundry door to car, hoping to dodge a panhandler or two.
“What do you writhe?” a feminine voice asks loudly behind me in the mottled parking lot.
Dang! I think. Someone’s about to hustle me.
I look over my shoulder as I hurry to make it into the car.
There’s a frizzy-grey-haired street woman of indeterminate age toothy-grinning at me. She repeats whatever it is she said.
“What do you writhe?”
“I can’t understand you,” I say, hoping she’ll go away.
I notice that her toothy grin is actually an every-other-tooth grin, since she’s missing sections of the usual white row. She grins widely again, like a happy, soulful jack-o’-lantern.
“What do you write?”
Now she points to the back of my car, where my self-printed bumper sticker proclaims O What Fun It Is To Write.
Dang again! I think to myself. I’ve once again made a fool of myself. She wants to know what it is that I write.
I grin back, showing more teeth than her.
“Oh, I write books and stories,” I say.
“Like what?” she grins engagingly. She’s really interested!
“Well,” I stumble. “One of my books is Dad’s Tweed Coat: Small Wisdoms Hidden Comforts Unexpected Joys.”
It’s the most popular of my publications, and now I wish I had a copy with me, to give her.
She grins and glows again, appreciately, and turns to walk away. She’s satisfied with the answer.
Some days I writhe, some days I write. Seems all the same to me.
I drive on to work, thinking about her wonderful smile and wondering why all those grey people walking the grey sidewalks this morning left their smiles at home in sad sock drawers
© Jim Reed 2015 A.D.