The woman who works in the cafe and speaks with a French accent is a pervert.
She sits there, one arm draped across the back of the bench seat, and leers out the window at the street.
She is austere about simple things like food and fashion. She demands simplicity. She demands craftsmanship.
She has what you would call emotional ambition.
The only thing that matters to her is what happens when she is naked with a man in a bedroom. You could say it is what she lives for.
She has a man. He is her coworker on week days in another place.
He comes and gets her when her shift is over. She does not greet him with a kiss. She walks him back to his apartment.
He watches her remarkably still, arched back as she walks. He watches her buttocks sway and bulge. Her legs. Her feet wrapped tightly in leather thongs.
She touches you in that way. She brings attention to the motherly bulge of her stomach that distinguishes her from the inconsequential girly women of your past. She lies there naked in your bed and, without speaking, demands that you bring her to new heights of sexual depravity.
Friday, February 11, 2011
The suicide rate of the elderly is rising.
The subway overhead. The train passing over my conscientious, socially connected self.
My body amid the vibrations. Amid the passing bodies of others in the street, I stand in the human highway.
The girl in the cafe fidgets with the paper. She hesitates to read an article she never cared about anyway. She is nervous.
What she looks like when she is making love.
I wonder if I couldn't smooth out her restlessness with my hands on her bare back.
Her less nervous friend shows up. They do everything but hold hands.
This deviant standing at the cafe window.
My socially unacceptable stillness in the middle of the highway, my boss's anger at my lateness.
I do not ease her angst.