Bus 13.

Today I took the 13 with a friend, which never fails to surprise me with its encounters. There was a man reeking of booze at the bus stop. My friend and I were sharing his bag of licorice between the two of us. Rain came down on the clear awning, the wind swirling over his feet and sweeping up my jackets around me.

"Can I have a piece of that?" The man pointed slowly with his tan, weathered hand, the other one holding a paper sack and a bottle of soda. "Sure," was my friend's response, offering the licorice out to him. "But it's pretty stale, just to warn you." 

He took a piece of licorice as he replied, "aw, it doesn't matter." He chewed on the very stale red licorice till finally it gave in and broke. "Yeahhh," he drawled, laying his head back against the wall, closing his eyes. "This is good." 

Communism occasionally appeals to me...ironically this means me using things they are alright with me borrowing. Fancy that. But then this was a situation where a stranger man enjoyed a stale and chewy perfect piece of rope that my friend gave to him. He gave it more appreciation than most would. He wasn't jaded.

I like it when people allow something small to be appreciated over their whole body. That's all I have to say about that.