Sweltering winter train. Take a seat, nod to tough-old-guy seatmate. No response. Whatever — I’ll read.
Three stops in, he glances at my Kindle, flashes a grin somewhere between affable and homicidal, and says, “Hey, Magic Pad, this is me.”
Practicing my own Mona Lisa smile, I move aside.
You did it!
There are no more stories to read. Come back for a fresh set of 50 words later.
Tell us your Boston story in exactly 50 words.
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There are countless true stories about Boston. This project tells one at a time, in exactly 50 words.
Submit yours here.