T is for

Therapy * Tickets

This was my favorite hobby.

The official would come up to me on the train, and before he could say anything, I'd ask, "Are you the one?" in that very mysterious voice I've got.

"Tickets?" he would ask, confused.

I would screw up my face all suspicious. "How do I know you're the right one? Do you know the phrase?" I played the role of the world's worst spy. I felt hilarious.

"Ma'am," he'd say, not yet frustrated, "I don't know what you're talking about."

Nodding sagely, I would reach into my purse, and take out the tickets for the show I was going to see. "Here, sir. Do you read the message?" My voice robotic--as if I were reciting lines. It was all I could do not to laugh, by this point.

Now he was mad. He'd look at the tickets, look at me, hand them back and sternly say, "Ma'am, I need to see your ticket to be on this train."

"Oh!" I would say, eyes wide. If we were approaching a station, I would get up, glance around me worriedly, and jump off the train, while the official stared at me, astounded.

I'd leave my ticket on the seat.