Perfumed

The lady’s perfume

accompanies her like an aura

on the train which speeds along the tracks, faster than I could run, but not really fast,

and causes my bronchial tubes to contract,

and wheezing ensues.

She is one of the

“they who carry the many bags” tribe.

The second bag is a Disney tote bag confection,

in the style of what someone thought was an old movie marquis.

Complete with glitter. And typography.

Diagonal typography.

We exchange a glance and

a polite smile.

My wheezing is congenial.

Outside as the scenery slides by

I imagine breathing in the cool fall air.

I breathe from the bottom of my abdomen, as I have been taught. I consider whether the inhaler I think I have in my single bag actually contains any magical mist to calm my bronchial passages.

Not likely.

We pass a stream with an arched Monet like bridge next to parking lot and I wonder if Monet has a parking lot next to his garden at Giverney.

I muse that I would like I go there someday and think that I would make a mental note the placement of the parking lot.

Perhaps we can take a train from Paris,

if we ever make it to Paris.

The buildings are closer together as the lumbering train which carries me

and the perfumed one

and the other worker bees into the city.

She types on her iPhone with the typing sound turned on and it annoys me inordinately – the typing sound

the glittery oversized second tote bag

 – and her aura of pernicious perfume which

is choking me.

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