Your letter, from the day everything felt silver, shimmers. Burnished details from Fugard’s play, “The Train Driver,” glow just as when we sat in those theatre seats. How real the story’s anguish felt. How deep the demand for compassion.
We talked for hours with other audience members over coffee in the West Side Diner. Other diner patrons hearing our spirted talk asked about the play. Soon we were all together, the cook with his arm propped up on the delivery window shelf, the waitresses in shocking pink smocks, the cashier, her smooth black hair piled high and threaded with rhinestones.
So vivid and entertaining.
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