The Shape of Days

He stands there, propped in the doorway of the train like a broom wedged in too small a closet. Pink shirt, gaudy blue-and-silver tie. Carried under one arm, like a football, is a translucent plastic container full of homemade chocolate-chip cookies.

I have the sudden urge to ask him if I can have one of his cookies.

A Russian girl with long brown hair and the most amazing jeans I’ve ever seen gets on the train. I gape.

I’ve got a sudden urge to ask if I can have one of her cookies, too.

Some of us never grow up.

This post is part of a series. You can read the whole thing here, if you’re into that sort of thing.

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