He smells like pain

He was at the bus stop.

Kept checking his watch.

Kept reading the same line in the newspaper over and over.  

“Two women, one of whom was carrying a baby in a car seat carrier, were arrested for stuffing various items down their pants and into a diaper bag.”

He thought, I could be a writer. I could write a sentence like that. I could use commas, question marks, and periods, too.

E carried a weight that wouldn’t have crippled a cricket.

“Why are you so unambitious?” coworkers would say. “Why are you so goddamn complacent?”

He’d shrug, wouldn’t be defensive at all, would say, “Work is overrated.”

He kept his moustache bushy so he wouldn’t have to trim his nose hairs.

That stain on his pants was permanent. He was so tired of having to constantly explain to people t was a vomit stain. Somebody else’s vomit stain. Nobody believed him. But they were his favorite pair of pants because he never had to shorten them. He had a 27-inch inseam…so when he found this pair with a 28-inch inseam at an outlet mall in Poughkeepsie, he was thrilled.

The experience of saying goodbye was still on his fingertips despite having been ravaged by a lifetime of kindness.  “Talk to somebody about what that agony is like,” he said. “They will gladly share with you how important it is to let the emotions cloud your decision-making process…”

Just one more lovable loser who leaves you with the usual thing…”