His stories had happy endings, but in his dating life, women left him like an umbrella left in a taxi.
To ease his loneliness, he toured the city, enjoying the view from elevated tracks. Whenever he did, a passenger would ask.
“Yes, I am that writer,” he said.
The other passengers would whisper among themselves.
“It’s him.”
They would applaud, and line up. Some asked for an autograph; some for a reading; others for a lock of his hair.
Confused yet pleased, he never caught on.
His readers?
Fans of a special kind.
They rode the rails to entertain him.
