My Guardian Angel in the Number 8 Jersey is called Eddie

On Labor Day I invited my darling neighbor and her two, tall, very tall and mature 6th and 8th grade daughters to the Art Institute of Chicago’s stunning temporary exhibit, Impressionism, Fashion and Modernity. With my membership card in hand, the four of us breezed in to spend a couple of hours drooling on the carpets over the delicious clothing paired with outrageously gorgeous art. Leaving my friends to go through the exhibit–yes, again!–I popped across the street to the bus stop in front of the Chicago Architecture Foundation to go home.

As it is Labor Day and CTA on holiday schedule, the bus stop was deserted except for one tattooed white man sitting with his back to me on the curb of South Michigan Avenue. Hope he doesn’t lose his toes, I thought as I glanced at him.

Four minutes. The CTA read out said, four minutes.

Tattoo man stood. Turned

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