Yesterday afternoon I was reading on the train, minding my own business, when a young man seated in front of me turned to give me a look.
What was his problem? All I was doing was reading, right?
Well . . . um, I was laughing, too.
Chuckling, chortling, burbling with glee. In my hands was Gail Carriger’s newest vampire-werewolf-steampunk-and-parasol confection.
The heroine’s two-year-old daughter had just turned into a werewolf cub, dashing about the public room of a first-class ocean liner , tossing her diapers but retaining her frilly dress. Prior to that, there was a scene with the heroine’s dear friend, Ivy, that was worthy of Monty Python. Silly Walks, to be exact.
If I’d been sitting in the privacy of my own home, I would have been rolling on the couch, screaming with laughter.
I assure you, I restrained myself: no rolling or screaming on the train.
The last time I remember this happening was when I was reading Ken Harmon’s THE FATMAN: a North-Pole Noir. Think “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer” narrated not by the avuncular voice of Burl Ives but a raspy-throated Humphrey Bogart channeling Philip Marlowe or some other noir flatfoot.
Anyway, nobody looked at me that time. Maybe they all had their earphones on.
Dear Reader, has anything like this ever happened to you? Please tell me I’m not the only one!