She has a trace of a beard and a case of tardive dyskensia. This is hacked out with appropriate guilt for making sport of the infirmed. It's gauche to ask if her habit of spitting is autonomic or something she hopes to perfect, practicing like a concert musician in her assisted living unit. But to be fair, few people don't practice something ugly.
The highrise is right next to my first bus stop of the day, first of many, in both directions, and I would be less averse if she didn't pace around in loops and cross checkings, with legs of her journey coming too close to me. Within inches. I'm averse to being spat on.
Since I'm being both honest and reprehensible, like a clown spinning plates on sticks, there's some points to discuss on her side of the topic, like she was there first. She had been utilizing the bus service before I began, and like I should go eat broken glass, the extra nice benches and lucite enclosure that grace the bus stop are only there because of the sensible modern highrise facility. Everywhere else in the hood there's a nest of cracked cement and mud to stand on while waiting for public transport. No shit, the system did put all kinds of people in circulation. People who in years past would have been kept in a vault. On the other hand, I'm still a lousy prick with a phobia about people who are sick and interactive.
But this young autumn day is a regular poultice. I feel better about everything, for there is a moment of clarity worth flicking across the breakfast table. I've been making a practice of pointing a stick at things that indicate an improving quality of life. The woman who paces around, wrecklessly, expectorating in all directions while sporting a Van Dyke has been wearing brand new glasses. They look like the kind of glasses lawyers, social workers, women professional people in general wear, and it's an improvement in both her looks, and in the way that social progress looks. Nice new glasses on that social progress.