on the bus today, there was a girl, glancing hesitantly at me as I passed and pulled out my Dostoyevsky novel for the long ride to the Times Cinema to see “cremaster Cycle.” She then began to vomit white and yellow chunks, sunny side-up eggs uncooked, coughing and breathing heavily. She eyed me again wearily, her head thrown back in that defeated posture and how I wanted to speak to her, but could not bring myself to bridge the gap of silence. She covered her tracks with newspaper and left as unobtrusively as she has entered my waking interest, stepped away from me, removed from me and left unattended, strewn about, as many things seem to be nowadays.