“See? It’s Bruce Lee.”
I stop just before exiting the door and do a cursory check of the train. No other slant eyes here. Even though my eyes are round, probably due to all the spanish influence. Four hundred years can’t help but have an effect, after all.
My eyes catch an older gentleman wearing a cap with an american flag embroidered on it. His finger is starting to come down from pointing. There’s a child there, maybe four years of age, and he’s staring directly at me.
I know what I should have said. I should have said, “No, actually, I can’t be Bruce Lee, because he’s dead. God bless America.”
But I didn’t. The chimes signaled the imminent closing of the doors, and honestly, I had better things to do.