“I am a man of simple taste who likes complex women.”
I’m sitting on the train, the sun hitting my face through the window. Trying not to fall asleep, I look at people getting on and off the train. A middle age man comes in the scene. He’s wearing normal clothes, an average haircut, grey beard; all the works. He walks down the aisle, past me. The stench of dry piss follows him, nauseating. I look around. Nobody else seems to notice. He walks back, lost. Stops a couple of meters away from me. Looks around. I’m trying not to breath, but the urine’s sweet fragrance percolates into my nostrils. It’s disgusting. He wanders away, out of sight again. The air lightens as the minutes go by and his presence vanishes into anonymity. I repeat in my head “I am a man of simple taste who likes complex women.” Thinking I should write something with that sentence, not to let my creativity go to waste. Feeling, somewhat, connected to the dry urine man and detached from the world who ignores both of us.