Little Bill

Hello. You don’t know me. You never will. In fact I doubt we’ll ever see each other again. In fact, I don’t think you ever saw me.

I have a confession to make. It’s not one I’m proud of. I stared at you the entire train ride into work this morning. I make it a point not to be the person on the subway that stares the entire ride.

You captivated me. I could not take my eyes off of you. You sat there, all wrapped up in your heavy winter coat, with your wooden rosary casually hanging from your neck, and you peeled the orange you so delicately held in a napkin inside your palm. For twenty minutes you carefully picked at the pith, depositing it into the grocery bag in your lap, taking away every remaining trace of white from the fruit.

And when you were done, it was perfect.

I just wanted to say that I admire you. There were no half-measures when it came to your orange. You held it delicately and did not destroy it. You did not deter; fending off the desire to devilishly devour the delciousness. You held fast and did it right. I can only imagine how the rest of the world would be were we all to pay as much attention to detail as you.