FemiKnitMafia

After a glorious Kris show, I walked all.the.way.down. Brattle Street to find the car. As I’m strolling along to the beat of acoustic girl-guitar, coat wide open after 4 hours of sweltering Passim hippie-heat, flush with parental pride at my lovely boy who clapped, squealed with delight, paid attention, and charmed everyone in the place, I see a jogger. A man. He’s just finished his run and is standing next to his car with the door flung open. He’s wearing only running shorts (hello…February?) and he’s lean and muscular. He’s drying his face and chest with a towel. He has no modesty is confident - proudly standing on Brattle Street, car flung wide open, half naked on a February night. I have visions of fraternities and blond het-girls and football and beer and then a business career and a killer golf swing and a supple leather briefcase and eventually a Volvo and a golden retriever and a swingset and the perfect salt and pepper hair.

As I play out this man’s life in my mind, I’m getting closer and closer to him. As I near the still wide open car, I hear music pouring out. It takes me a moment to realize it’s Les Miserables.