Nary a day goes by that I don't see a woman crying on the Métro.
I sometimes wonder why she is crying, but I think I know.
There's a man behind it.
When I see these women, I want to hug them - to tell them it's alright. But that would be weird. Approaching a crying stranger is always weird. The last time I did it was on an OC Transpo bus in Ottawa. She was happy that I asked if she was alright and she shot me a thankful smile, but just went on crying alone.
In retrospect it was very fearless of me to do so. A woman scorned is a dangerous thing. Interacting with one is about as safe as taking up residence beneath Mt. St. Helens (It's about time she blew again.).
If it weren't so dangerous, I would offer her my ipod, and tell her to listen to Lemonade by Tsunami Bomb.
A cute song at best, it's still a helpful little reminder that you're worth more than what whomever has made you cry had appraised you for.
Isn't that always the case?
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