The Secret Lives of the Purple People

It was rainy that Tuesday evening, the kind of rain that felt like the universe was spitting on you just for being out of your house. The people of New York had been driven underground into the warm, slightly less damp tunnels of the subway system where, packed soggily in between emotionally dead businessmen, cranky old ladies, and hormone-crazed high school students, the Purple People sat.
Just two, next to each other on the subway bench. He wore an old Land's End winter jacket (purple), with striped pants (purple) and a hat to match. She wore a ribbon in her hair (purple), a tweed coat (purple), and a pair of Wellingtons (also purple). Both had glasses (not purple), and carried books (also not purple). (*Editor's note: try saying "purple" now. You can't!*) The train screamed along the tunnel connecting Manhattan to Queens, and there sat the Purple People, reading their respective books.
At first they did not notice each other. But soon, each began to glance over at each other, looking quickly back down as soon as the other seemed to spot the surreptitious glance. Stop by stop, the other passengers trickled out, till it was only the Purple People left in the car. Whole benches were open to them. But neither moved. Static crackled over the intercom, as the Infuriating Male Voice informed the Purple People that the train was being held momentarily by the train's dispatcher. Please be patient.
The N train slowly squeaked to a halt. They were outside now, looking over a smoky field of suburb, with factory towers rising like gray sunflowers out of the drizzle. The rain made slow taps on the roof, smudging the light that poured out of the Purple People car. Neither was pretending to read now. Slowly their eyes met. The Purple Man put down his book. Slowly he removed his coke bottle glasses. "Purple," he whispered, his grubby beard and balding head now dazzling in the flattering fluorescence of the subway lights, "is my favorite color." The Purple Woman removed her coke bottle glasses, her mousy hair spilling down in luxurious curls. "Mine too," she whispered. They locked eyes. They knew what this meant.


If you think they then professed their undying love, turn to page 193!

If you think they drew swords and swore on the graves of their forefathers to either put an end to their hated foe or else face the icy embrace of death, turn to page 196!



Bahahaha, that was a lot of fun! I dunno about you people, but I know which page I'll be turning to! Preferably, this story should be read by the smoky voiced narrator from Sin City as smooth, melancholy jazz plays in the background. If you lack such a narrator, your imagination will have to do.

In other news, I went to Comic Con and met Chewbacca! I talked to him and he said he liked my shirt! Let me repeat that: CHEWBACCA COMPLEMENTED MY CLOTHING. Were I to die right now, I would be at peace.

Wholeheartedly,

Daniel Emerson