the native and the hairspray.

she had olive skin, a little bottle of hairspray, and a hallucination.

you're not black! stop pretending you're black!

she sprayed her hair - she hated her flyaways.

didn't your father ever teach you to pack only what you needed?
BITCH!

her eyes were half closed. she was trembling.

yeah? you don't scare me! i have four sons. one of them killed 10 men. they'll kill you too.

spritz.

i'm not scared.

spritz.

you - you're a fucking white boy. don't pretend you're black.
i'm not scared.

by this point i was still holding the book i was reading, but my eyes had definitely stopped moving.

go ahead and point that gun at me! blow my fucking head off! i dare you!
i have four sons...

people started getting up and moving.

oh yeah? and look at you? you're a little bitch riding the subway alone. i don't care about you.

everyone tried to resist the urge to look at the seat she was talking to as they walked by - resist the urge to look harder than they should.

you're fucking ugly. yeah!

by this point the rest of the train's passengers had made the car back-heavy, leaving only me, the native woman, and an asian man at the front of the car.

{singing} it's my birthday - i solved the time difference - it's my birthday!

then she danced [or more - wiggled] moving her hands like stirring a pot.
and yes. it was awesome.

are you a writer?

resist.

are you a WRITER?

i suddenly felt sorry for the asian man she had cornered. he was holding a book like me.

i said arrrrre youuuuu a wrrrrrrrrrriterrrrrrrrrr?

he couldn't find the words. he shook his head from side to side, barely looking up.

oh. well. i'm looking for an editor. i've got a story that will make us MILLIONS!
{asian man: i'm not a writer.}

the urge. but this time, the urge was of a different splendor. this time everything in myself was screaming at her: TELL ME YOUR STORY - I WILL LISTEN. and then the part i wouldn't tell her would be that i would take her and write about her, myself.

fucking bitch! you're ugly. i'll kill you.

i decided against this and got off at my station.

i really do hope she makes millions.
i would buy her book.

when the wind is fierce

i picture you blowing away.

some just aren't ready.

my dad once taught me to eat the grapes that have fallen off the stem first - usually the ones at the bottom of the bag; the ones kids never like to eat - because it is their time.
i grew to feel guilty if i ever plucked a new, firm one off the stem knowing full well its squishy brothers were at the bottom.

this is good advice i think.