Restless, shifting, fugacious as time itself is a certain vast bulk of the population of the red brick district of the lower West Side. Homeless, they have a hundred homes. They flit from furnished room to furnished room, transients forever - transients in abode, transients in heart and mind. They sing "Home, Sweet Home" in ragtime; they carry their lares et penates in a bandbox; their vine is entwined about a picture hat; a rubber plant is their fig tree. (O. Henry)
22 Mars 2016
The weather is cold and windy. A lonely girl is enjoying a cigarette in front of Atwater Market.
- Hi there! How are you doing?
- Hi! Do we know each other?
- I don’t think so.
- So?
- Nothing.
- It’s weird.
- Yes, indeed.
- What’s up?
- Nothing special.
- What are you carrying in your bag?
- Second-hand books offered by an anonymous reader.
- Books about what?
- The Rading Group by Elizabeth Noble, Mars and Venus in the Bedroom by John Gray, The Pilot’s Wife by Anita Shreve, The Oxford Book of Canadian Verse in English (Chosen by Margaret Artwood) and PSYCHOLOGICAL RESEARCH, THE IDEAS BEHIND THE METHODS, by Douglas G. Mook.
- Are you a writer?
- No. I’m a cook.
- A cook? Are you kidding?
- I’m serious. You’ve never seen a cook reading a book?
- Never. By the way, I’ve never dated a cook.
- Why?
- Cooks don’t seem to have time for dating. They are always busy in the kitchen!
- May I invite you to my kitchen this weekend?
- No. You are the first man in my life who invites me to his kitchen!
- And maybe the last one. Have a nice evening!
- Farewell, Mister Cook!
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