I am sitting on the 6 train, downtown, it is not the afternoon any longer but not quite yet evening but not yet the weekend. It is 5pm on a Friday in Manhattan and Summer is over. Your new coat looks nice.
Across from me sits a monolith woman, probably 6 feet tall - 6' on the 6, and isn't the adjective sex? She is paler than fair-skinned and lighter than the fluorescent light, with hair that is the white of beach-town children, all the way to the root; she is natural. I wish the little green lights on the train sign would illuminate her with an alien glow, something adding to her austere as unnatural, sickly maybe. Have you noticed there are no clocks in the subway?
She has beautiful fingers, long and thin in delicate ribbons of bones, they stand out against her whole image, her fingers in front of her downcast face, cradling her phone, so delicate and meek like they are made of French pastries that might melt in your mouth like wafers of butter, texture like wet sand. Lady fingers. Her fingers are gorgeous, her fingers are her defense against the gradual decay that comes after we are born.
She has no jawline, a chin small and hiding into her neck like a child in its mother's skirts, causing her head to appear a small tear-drop atop her large and imposing body, her slim nose centered between the cheeks of dewy foundation shining in the subway car, the passing lights. Or is she perspiring? It is too cold for that; perhaps she really is sickly. Her eyes never lift upwards but her mouth off-sets the symmetry as it retains a slant so slight but inconclusive that I cannot decide if she appears inquisitive or jovial or daft. Her calves, bare beneath her black shift dress, are massive and impressive in their sturdiness, dimpled. Her slanted mouth. Her lady fingers. The straps of her sandals wrap around her ankles like strips of black leather chains, like a gladiator but not the ones on a runway, not even with those lady fingers and helios hair. Her sandals look like bondage. I wonder if she feels like she is in bondage to her body. I wonder if she wants to escape it.
I am wearing a T-shirt with my own face on it and blue parachute pants from the children's section of a thrift store. They are high-waisted to show how little my insides take up outside and they snap closed at my navel. They cost me a quarter. After putting them on this morning, I was confused about what I had just gotten into. I asked: "These pants, are they sexy?" The reply was a quick glance and only: "Very eighties." I tucked in the shirt with my face on it, which did nothing to my high-waist except show it.
I subscribed to MOTHER Magazine's emails and bought my first issue of Playboy before leaving the city.