“Don’t talk; write!” the voice said.

“Who was that?” I asked, aloud.

I was seated at a bus stop, thinking about and wondering how I had come to a point in my life where speaking my thoughts aloud was now a norm.

I often add voice to  my private, mental meanderings, not bothering to convert to a more private mode when transitioning into a world beyond Lee Broom Studio.

On the bus now, a lady looked my way with a touch of fear on her attractive sixty-ish face. I smiled  and told her I spent most of my time alone and that my habit of noisy self-talk actually had its roots during adolescent years when I lived in my own small house previously built for a maid at the Broom Estate.

I apologized for frightening her.

She replied that I had not scared her at all;  she  was afraid of the day when her own very private habit so very much like my own, would emerge in public, beyond the safety of her own front door.

“Do you live around here?” I asked.

Her condo was five doors east of mine.

“I live there also” added another rider; “I’m on the third floor near the elevator.”


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