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Vingettes

A while ago I saw a middle-aged man, wearing jeans and a Mariners jacket and carrying a leopard-print umbrella.  The umbrella was so out of place, that I immediately made up a story about him:
He had to borrow his daughter's umbrella because he had left his navy blue umbrella at the office and had broken his black one by throwing it at his wife's car.  She was supposed to pick him up, but didn't see him even though he was waving his umbrella and shouting at her.  So he tried throwing it at her car to get her attention.  She didn't even seem to notice the umbrella bouncing off her trunk and landing on the opposite side of the road, where it was immediately run over by about five cars and a suicidal bicyclist.  So today, he had taken the only umbrella in the coat rack, his daughter's.  Although people gave him weird looks, and his co-workers made snide remarks, his only comment upon arriving home was, "We need to get Mina a new umbrella; this one has a broken tine."

Today I was at the library and overheard a conversation that had me secretly smiling while searching for novels on disease.  A very large bald man (and I mean not just girthy, but TALL) was talking to a little old lady about sewing.  He wanted to know where he could find the best books on sewing, because he had just taken it up and was enjoying it immensely.  I was so charmed, I almost considered running up to him and saying, "I like you!" and then running away.

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