‘Sorry Baby, My Tomato’

Photo by Jason Tester

Beware of all fluids on the bus. As Kristee tells us:

I was riding a 24-Divisadero around 8 a.m. It was crowded and I was on one of the center facing-front seats reading a book. It was an embarrassing old-lady romance novel that I didn’t want anyone to see the cover of so I had it flat in my lap. At one point, a droplet fell from above me onto the page. It was too red to be water, but too diluted to be blood. Startled, I look up and there on the hand railing was a gnarled old fist tightly gripping a half-eaten ripe tomato. I loudly cleared my throat to express my irritation. In the smoothest Isaac Hayes voice, he calmly said, ‘Awww… sorry baby, my tomato,’ and casually stuffed it into the pocket of his jeans.

Head’s up?

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