Something's afoot

Yesterday, on my way home from work, I saw Salman Rushdie sitting in our local diner. Right there, in our booth. Eating his eggs scrambled, just like I do. It must be a sign. Of what, I don't know, but it must be. I mean, Salman Rushdie for crying out loud! And in my diner!

I paused to gawp through the glass storefront for a while but etiquette demanded that I move on, so after a moment, I bumbled on homewards. It did occur to me, as I picked up the mail and shuffled up the countless stairs, that seeing as I'd only seen the shiny pate of his balding head, it didn't have to be Salman Rushdie. In fact, come to think of it, it could pretty much have been any distinguished gentleman with a receded hairline.

But frankly, I still prefer to believe it was ol' Salman. In my diner, sitting in my booth, eating my eggs. It must be a sign. Not quite sure of what, but I'm right tingling with anticipatory delight.