“73. Waverley.”

“73. Waverley.”

I could see from the top of the stairs that one of my buses was waiting. Someone had just come out of the turnstiles from the metro at Harvard and was making a mad dash for the lower bus tunnel. We were both underground. He could see the bus from where he was. I could see him.

I did not want to make a run for it, however. For one, it’s a little undignified, I find, and, well, I was in no hurry. Sure, I’d miss that bus and maybe wait ten or twelve minutes for another, maybe even less. Meanwhile, there’s a copy of Anna Karenina in my bag, halfway read, which means still a lot more to go. Continue reading

Advertisements