On ping pong and pacing

Again mass transit supplies us with an invaluable slice of life.

Right now he's sitting on the bench next to me, left ankle on right knee, face in his left hand. He's sighed audibly, loud enough to hear over the previously-mentioned earphones.

When he arrived at the stop, I thought he must be terribly angry. He was pacing about, stamping his feet and kicking at an errant leaf which invoked his wrath.

He spun around quickly, oddly in time with the music in my ears. For a moment, he could have been dancing.

After traversing a path perilously close to my personal space, he set his bag on the far end of the wrought-iron bench, and pulled from it what appeared to be a slightly square money bag with a zipper along the top.

It was, in fact, a case. A case with a paddle inside. A ping-pong paddle.

He extracted the paddle and proceeded to pace around again, this time with the added benefit of being able to practice what looked like a wicked, if choppy, return.

Oh, how I love the bus.

Later this week, musings on rolls and turkey.