"Prison food was so much better," I quip
as the three of us exit the hospital elevator.
The stranger in front of us laughs
as she hustles through the lobby alongside us.
"It was a joke," I say in my defense
hoping that the vivid tattoos on my arms don't
resemble jailhouse artwork done with pens and razors.
"It wouldn't bother me," the forty-something-year-old
woman replies, barely taking the time
to look over the padded shoulder of her business suit.
"I've seen a lot in my life."
She speeds off down some corridor
heading deeper into the heart of the hospital
as my girlfriend and I make way for the automatic doors.
There are still some people worth talking to in the world.
You've just got to try harder.
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