Advent-Age-Us/Advantageous.

First:

I'm not known for having dimples, and yet, I've got one anyway.
Just one, to the left of my smile.
Or to the right, if you're looking at me and doing something to make me smile, I guess.

Second:

On the train, I sat across from someone.
I was about to refer to the rosary she was holding, but that wasn't her - that was the Polish woman who shared a bench with me in the park about a month ago.
This woman was nothing like that woman.
My mix-up, therefore, seems fairly unwarranted.
I probably thought that she was the one with the rosary beads because she was reading a Bible, and sometimes, but not always, the people with Bibles are the same people as the people with rosaries.
(If some people have rosaries, and all people with rosaries have Bibles, then it can be said that...)
Let's say this:
She didn't have a rosary.
Just a Bible.
I mean, she had other things too, I guess, in that bag of hers, or on her person, perhaps, but if we're examining her possessions in the vacuum of religious paraphernalia, let's just say that all she had was a Bible.
(But what do we know? Maybe she had a wallet-size photo of her aunt somewhere in that bag, and her aunt is a nun, or was a nun, at least, before she died. But is that religious paraphernalia, or familial paraphernalia? And so what if she died, she's still a nun, right?)
You know, maybe she wasn't reading it at all.
Maybe she was just looking at it while thinking about what she had had for lunch or what she would be having for dinner or maybe the fact that she needed to buy saran wrap, but her eyes scanned the pages pretty convincingly, so I'll say she was reading.
I reached into my own bag to pull out a book.
I tried to be subtle about it.
I didn't want her to look up.
I didn't want to interrupt her Bible-reading (pseudo or otherwise.)
But she did, prompted, presumably, by the sound of my rummaging.
(I never could keep quiet about some things.)
She smiled at me.
(Shit!)
I smiled back.
(One dimple.)
Then, still smiling, she glanced at the reading material I'd brought.
(I like to think she hoped that it would be a Bible.)
No such luck.
("Lesbian Pulp Fiction Of The 1950s.")
She stopped smiling and returned to her book, and I'm going to call it a book and not "the Bible," just to see how it feels.
(Weird, that's how.)
Trains, it would seem, are really just chapels on tracks.

Third:

Purple, Purple, Pink, Purple. That's how the candles go.