The Positively Prophetic Adventures of Pie

I left the pie on the train, and if you ask me, it was an utter waste of a perfectly good pie.

I boarded in Farmingdale, and sat next to an older looking man who had removed his dress shoes. He wore a black pin striped suit, and had it been up to me, I would have placed him in a Sopranos episode.

“Hey.” His voice was quiet and rough. The kind that demanded attention.

“Are you talking to me?” Suddenly realizing I had just channeled Clint Eastwood, I let out a chuckle.

“What’s in the box? It’s been driving me crazy since you got on.” He broke eye contact and started looking at one of his shoeless feet.


At the mention, he sat straight up. “What kind of pie?”

“You know, I’m not really sure. A kind of berry maybe? I bought it at some bakery right down the street from the station. Thought I’d bring it home to my…”

“Give me the pie.”

“Excuse me?” I clutched the box like he just asked for my firstborn.

“I said, give me the pie.”

“Umm. no?” I started to get up.

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