The Reverse Crying Game
After a ten minutes of surreptitious glances and excited shuffling of my feet, an important question occurred to me:
What the fuck is Forrest Whitaker doing on a bus in downtown Brooklyn at 8:15 on a Thursday morning?
And then, another thought:
He should either get a stylist, or fire the one he has. Damn.
Good thing those particular thoughts entered my mind before I resolved to bother Mr. Whitaker.
Because, of course, the person seated across the aisle was not, in fact, Forrest Whitaker.
Furthermore, the person seated across the aisle was, in fact, a woman.
Yet again, I'm startled and impressed by my own brilliance. Woot!
[Novel update: 1, 819 words down...48,181 to go. Aaron has joined the cult...er, quest. Sweet.]