It’s been hard to adjust to living in the city, partially because I’m not trying as hard as I could. It’s frustrating when the only people I recognize on a daily basis are the homeless people. I’ve heard other transplanted mothers say that they only recognize cashiers and store owners, so I guess I’m not that different.

Friday night I realized that I hadn’t left the house since Wednesday afternoon. I ditched the sleeping boys and hopped on the bus to buy some yarn at the prominade.

On the way home, I sat down on the bus bench and was greeted by a smiling man with an eye patch. I’m working on being more social, so I said hello back and we began to chat.

He asked how I was doing, and I admitted my usual response: sleepy. He said he was going home to fall asleep in front of some Law & Order reruns. We have that much in common.

Two minutes. Within two minutes, he told me that he had just gotten out of prison, he was there for twenty-three years. After that, he took off his eye-patch and asked me if it was still swolen (yes), and then proceeded to peel back his eyelids for me to see the damage. Ack.

He then pulled out a matchbook and asked me to dial a number to see if it was working. The number was busy, and then his bus arrived.

“Good Night young lady!”
Good night, indeed.

After his bus left, I saw the woman with the high-heels and the wheel chair again.