The Pencil I Found on the Orange Line & Other Stray Thoughts

I hate writing with pencils. They forgive too much. They remind me of myself.

You can’t hide your thoughts with a pen. A pen tears everything open, and you’re left crisscrossing all the parts you want to sanitize. Those dark little crossings-out remind me of the things I still want to hide.

The man at the library today was counting his rosary beneath our table. He was whispering and yelling at the same time - I don’t know how else to say it in English.

I stared at him for a long time, no longer interested in The Yacoubian Building lying open before me.

Eventually we spoke, me and the yelling-whispering man.

His name is Abdul.

He says he is praying.

He says sometimes prayers can be brief and violent.

I ask why.

He asks, “Why not?”

Everything important seems to happen offstage.

I’m wearing a dumb smile, the kind you wear at Christmas parties when everyone’s drunk and you’re on your third glass of orange juice. I never know why I’m smiling. My face does what it wants sometimes.