THE DAY STARTS WITH PIE

Jonathan in Israel persuaded me to think of pie. He is an evil man. And I am forced to acknowledge, finally, that I cannot design a pie-chart if my life depends on it.

There's always a large wedge missing.
I like pie.


PIE!

If at all possible, I like to sit in one of the front seats when I head over to Marin. At Broadway yesterday morning a woman got on whom I have seen before. She always greets the bus driver with a lovely smile -- one which is warm, genuine, and without pretense; a sincere heartfelt sunniness -- which I have for a long time wished was directed at me instead.

No, I am not obsessing. She is beautiful when she smiles.

Because the Golden Gate transit schedule has shifted slightly since December, I haven't seen her often this year. Yesterday's outfit was casual though well-executed. The effect was very nice indeed.
I remain appreciative of the warm weather.
It wasn't revealing or immodest.
Yet utterly yowza.

I am at an age where I do not leer provocatively or exclaim "let us go dancing at a loud and impossibly hip south of Market club while guzzling mojitos" whenever a charming woman crosses my path.
Probably as close to maturity as I will get.

What a pity she goes nearly all the way to the back of the bus and just sits there quietly be herself, earplugs in, not making eye-contact with anyone. She looks fragile and abstracted as the passing scenery reflects off her spectacles.

I'm always at the front, usually with my eyes closed. Meditation sustains the mind, and makes the time between Van Ness and Mill Valley fly.

Often she is the last person left when I disembark.


I am a dirty old man who very much likes pie.


She is a young lady with shapely legs.


I am not easily distracted.


Except sometimes.




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