There was a man on the train today. We came back from London too early this afternoon. Returns are never too crowded.
Strangely his socks were the last bit of him I noticed. Purple stripes. While I found a seated position diagonally opposite of him, his wrinkled face eyed me. With honesty, but the movement of his looks let me know he was embarrassed of staring like a shy school boy. For minutes I puzzled over what he might find so interesting in my face. Maybe he recognized me from one of his dreams. Finally he remembered he is holding a book in his hands. Both of them in soft smooth skin clasp the modern binding. ‘’Running with Sc…’’. I couldn’t make it out.
My gaze swiftly running from his thin ankles covered in purple up to the book title in exactly the same colour. Over and over, until the angle was finally right – or he was ready to reveal the title to me by lifting the paperback cover a little higher – Scissors, it was: Running with scissors.
He did not look at me ever again and as I stepped off the train without looking back, all I thought: What a magnificent manic title; suitable for a man capable of such choice of socks.
I will read it too.

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