Is she, or isn't she? I looked up over the seatback to see her taking off her black cowboy hat. When she sits down, I can look left to see her reflection in the window. For miles, I peep as she grooms and preens herself: as she adjusts her leopard-print sheath round her tits: her fingers with their many silver rings, including the index: her throat, with its careful black ribbon:
In fact, I get up, go down the aisle, and come back to my seat just to get a good look at her: branded shopping bags at her feet; the cowboy hat on the seat next to her; the peaked plucked eyebrows that no longer arch to ask a question:
And still, I peep at her preening: She puts her hair in a butterfly clip: mirror, powder, lipstick: buffs her nails: takes her hair out of its clip to smooth it once more:
A rattle of plastic, and there is her face over the back of my seat, smiling:
"I dropped my hair thing, do you see it?" Her little voice, clottily sweet.
It was down among the cord to my computer.
"Your clip."
"Thanks."
She's reading the
You and your money column in Cosmo, while conducting a long conversation on her cell: Korean tonalities, long singing dipthongs. Then she takes another call:
"Why did you call from a pay phone? I want our time to be special."
She gets off at Penn Station.
{NA}
>> posted by John Psmyth
• 6/02/2004 07:17:00 PM
•
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