In Transit 4

She lifts a pair of bug-eyed glasses and leans in to read over his shoulder. I feel
like a voyeur, twice removed. It must be good, or he must be good, because
her body opens to him.
Is it the book or the flecks of foam festooned to his handlebar mustache?
Maybe he smells good. A mix of coffee breath, bike grease, and Aqua Velva she
simply can’t resist. They say smells can overcome sense, and I’ve never seen such a sharp contrast
to her jet-black dress, wrap scarf and matching knit beret. Even her eyes are flakes of coal.
He’s lean in blue jeans with a Cardinals cap, while she dwells in Parisian cafes,
sips black coffee with a vintage cigarette holder perched on pale lips. I must be grinning,
for her eyes flick up to lock mine; glasses drop and she quickly checks her texts.
One quick look, her only adieu, as he hops of the bus, bids the driver, “Thanks, dude.”


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