Tuesday

So there's quite a queer couple sitting directly across the aisle. He's a pretty big guy, both tall and fattish, sporting some especially ugly white sneakers sticking out from under what appear to be marching-band pants but are more likely security guard pants. I'm digging the garish gold stripe. His size is accentuated by an oversized puffy parka and general garrulousness, loud and lively but not in that Williamsburg way. Oh, and then there's the fact that his seatmate, she's a dwarf. Now, I don't mean short, and I don't mean midget or hobbit or whatever, but a genuine, facially featured, 2 1/2 feet tall, the movie Willow ("You are great!"), honest-to-goodness dwarf. And for all that, she's quite put together: nicely straightened hair, complementary make-up and modest jewelry, conservative dress right down to her tasteful platform shoes waaaaay up from the floor. She's real soft-spoken too, and the contrast accentuates her neighbor's boisterousness or at least the impression thereof.

Goddammit. I was going to try for some lesson-learned thing here, complimentary relationships or some O'Henry twist, but this youngish wanna-be hipster (Yes! Not even a real hipster douchebag; just someone who wants to be one!) just got on at 14th Street singing along overly loud to whatever limp-wristed crap is blaring from the requisite earbuds, and I totally lost my train of thought.