I am in line at at the Walgreens at 6 Corners when I hear it,
"Yah. It's wicked cold. Wintah for the next evah!" says a cracked voice into an iPhone. He's 3 ahead of me, middle aged, and wearing a tartan scarf, navy overcoat, and Red Sox hat. I wish I knew him outside of observation.
"Yah, the Olympics, right? Proud for Bergy but can't wait for the Broons to staht. Wednesday, right? Yah. Of course I'll watch it or at least stream Gochah if I get stuck in traffic.
I'm here for tissues but I swear I can smell the ocean. I close my eyes to not be in Chicago if only a moment. I've talked hockey with guys like him back east. They love the sass. They don't buy me drinks but flag down the bartender when my Gansett is empty. I remind them of their wives twenty years ago.
When they leave they tip their hats and tell me I hope the right man makes me happy someday.
I swear there is nothing like an New Englander.
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