Thank God I'm Married

I passed her as I boarded the light-rail, the brunette sitting across the aisle in the short black dress. What was that magazine she had? Could it be... the current issue of The New Yorker? (My wife has a subscription.) Yes, I recognized the illustration; she was reading the article about bipolar disorder in pre-adolescent children: “What is ‘Normal’?” or something like this.

Her shoes were off and she was playing with them, toenails painted scarlet, fuscia -- whatever. She looked up; her eyes were dark blue.

I looked away quickly, and turned my attention to the recipe I posted here yesterday.

The light-rail arrived at Mountain View, where we all got off. She charged over to where the Caltrain was just arriving. I threaded my way through the crowd and took a backward-facing seat in the second or third car. Almost done with my recipe alterations!

Some movement to my left -- The New Yorker was again in the seat across the aisle!

Thank God I'm married! If I weren't, I'd feel compelled to try to start a conversation and likely make a fool of myself. Had she read Listening to Prozac, or its refutation in Digitopia? How about Ritalin Nation? What did she think constituted a "normal" pre-adolescent child, particularly a boy? And why couldn't I just mind my own business and finish what I was writing about that casserole anyway? Bah!

Thank God I'm married!

Disclaimer: I really didn't talk to her. At all. I never saw her before and probably never will again.