Part 2: Now
Chapter 8: Andy
The woman next to me sits too close. It’s not that she’s overweight and can’t help that her bulk invades my space—that I could understand—but this gal is rail thin, hair dyed red, wearing a leopard-print dress, black spike heels, and way too much cheap perfume.
The Red Line ‘L’ train rumbles south toward downtown. It’s around eight o’clock on a Wednesday morning in May. I missed the Metra train I usually take, and it was easier for me to simply walk from my condo on Lunt over to the ‘L’ stop on Morse. That way I wouldn’t be late for my job as a communications specialist for a healthcare professional association on Michigan Avenue.
I feel her eyes on me. I try to concentrate on the book I’m reading, Armistead Maupin’s The Days of Anna Madrigal, attempting to
