Wolves

Behind all that mesh fencing is a red fox. An urban red fox. Near the back corner of my condo building.

I'd been on the bus for a while by the time the man got on. I was in one of the senior/handicapped seats facing the center, and he sat near me in the first forward facing row. As people got on many were exclaiming about the weather since the temperature was dropping. Chit chat. I don't mind talking to people on a city bus. It's not forever. And there's this thing here known as Minnesota nice.    Which is way more complicated than it sounds, but anyway. "Did you have a good day?" the man asked me.

"I did," I said. 

"What made it a good day?" he asked.

"Good people," I said.

"Mmmm," he said, are you sure they were good? Sometimes people fool you."

"They were good," I said.

"How do you know?"

"Intuition," I said, though my intuition certainly has steered me wrong in this department more than once. 

"You got to watch out for the wolves in sheep's clothing," the man said. About this time the rowdy gaggle of addicts so high they practically had needles hanging from their arms moved past us to exit. "Look at them," the man said. "What the hell?"

They were wolves in wolves clothing. But too fucked up to be of any harm since they could barely stand. The man was right. Wolves in sheep's clothing are far more dangerous. 

I stood up to ask the driver how far east he went after the bus turns on Washington.

"Hmmm," the man said after I got my answer. "I didn't even know that was east. Look at that, I learned something from you."

"Well, I know where the sun sets," I said.

The man got off just before the bus turned. "Take it easy," he said.