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the cold in my heart

Besieged by a cold, I glared down the dark avenue, impatiently anticipating the telltale yellow marquis lights. The bus was running fifteen minutes late, and my skin crawled continually as the chill of 49 degrees at six o’clock in the morning overcame more of me with each uncomfortable moment.

Another Monday had arrived, and albeit I chide myself, knowing I should be elated to be alive, I was feeling slow and a little less than groovy, barely even moving as I sulked in my own private lassitude.

I felt a little better after smugly watching a (not-so) happy guy try to impossibly squeeze himself and his luggage into a seat, while a few others impatiently waited in the aisle. He continually said “sorry” in a saccharinely-soft and anxious voice, until he realized that he had no choice but to sit down and ask people to step over his 12 inch roll-away parked in a foot and a half of space.

Along with the frustrated look on his face, he was wearing a multi-colored, last-season, sale-priced, striped, zippered turtle neck wool sweater from the Gap; beady glasses; shiny black and pointy warlock-like buckled shoes; and a coif that made him look like either Euro-trash or a buzzard flying off to the Lilith Fair.

Granted, it was might petty of me to look over my own beady glasses and be amused by this drama. But, admittedly, I felt much better by it afterwards. For it helped me forget my own sad state, as I reveled watching him struggle in one slightly worse than my own.

And so, I left my leer with a grin and turned away to close my eyes and sniffle, as well as feel the grating cold in my chest—one that, I confess, is apparently chilling my heart and hampering my capacity for sympathy.

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