Two Types

He sweeps in from the next subway car, between cars like you're not supposed to, trailing a pungent smell of weed, while we studiously ignore him. 

He sits directly opposite us, the piney, skunky fug of marijuana curdling around him, an angry look in his eye, when a plastic disposable clatters from his hands to the floor; we ignore that too.

When he gets off the train an older woman, who's also been sitting across the aisle from us, notices us reading the program for "The Play That Goes Wrong," 

She follows Reeky Weed out of the train, but not before pausing to comment to us about the play, saying, "It was so funny though, wasn't it?"

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One year ago: The Face

Two years ago: Sick Puppy

Three years ago: In My Prime

Four years ago: Birthdon't