Underneath we are Different

Mark stepped off the train onto the platform smeared with the buzz of human condition. He tried to suppress a smile as he tasted the coffee on his lips and felt the rain gentle as cool muslin. He felt different. He knew he was different. He could see the plaster-cast grimaces on the faces of the commuters. He could smell the hot maple syrup coming from the bakery at the front of the station and a hot diesel engines. The sounds of suits flapped, brushing against each other. The rustle of handbags. The scratch and scuttle of feet reminded him of pigeons pecking their way into work. He was different and he knew it. Beneath his pressed trousers he was wearing a pair of his wife’s knickers.

 

–Benjamin F Jones
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About Graphite Bunny

I am a writer working in South Wales (UK). I love pizza, photography and moist clay. When it rains I catch drops in my open mouth. I create poetry, flash, absurdist snapshots and humorous fiction.
This entry was posted in Prose, Scraplets, Snapshots and tagged , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

3 Responses to Underneath we are Different

  1. Thank you very much both. x

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