Sketch Title

Dear J—

So, let me sketch this for you this morning:

Arrive at the station roughly seven or eight minutes early, as usual. Skinny guy’s at the shelter – don’t recognize him, he’s not a regular, like the guy with the beautiful copper mug (either a dentist or a lawyer, commuting to Menlo Park) or the retired fellow who helped me turn the abandoned pants in to the police those several years ago. Nope; close-cropped hair, dark blue t-shirt, baggy jeans but not sagged to determine the particular color of his underwear.

He asks me when the next train is arriving and complains that he saw lights and a horn two hours ago with no train forthcoming. I tell him they run freight over the line at night, but he’s not completely satisfied with this and walks away; I see him later walking back from behind a truck, zipping up his pants and strolling back as the train arrives. When we board he;s right behind me and I hear muffled curses, turning around to see blood on his hands; in the light I can tell he’s been working all night or maybe just hasn’t had a chance to clean up yet? 



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