Pressed together by concrete and tweed, two commuters are waiting for a train.
Thighs become acquainted, practically inappropriate friction under the guise of crowds
and rush hour. We both abide by the quiet denial of each other’s presence. The mechanical
breeze from the swish of the doors pushes back our hair. It is the way the fluorescent lights
in the tunnel cut your face in rapid succession as the train barrels forward that signals you
to me. There is a smooth break in the air and I slip out. When I was a little boy I had a
profound understanding of the world. Scared of what I could not see, I knew that which I cannot
touch would kill me. I quickly learned to funnel my extraordinarily everything. Bit to bolt and
tumbler, I tucked the dangerous vigor of my color neatly away and longed for Hollywood pallor.
I am a scion from pulsating neon. Pushing my lips, I worked my mouth around the theatre marquee.
“Pussycat. Pussycat.” As a child, I would say it over and over again until I felt the curves of
the smooth light sliding outward from my mouth. I am speaking low so that you will lean in to hear me.
I gently fill my nostrils with the skin of your cheek, do you always choose this train? I confess, my
mother once referred to me as a cross between a tawdry princess draped in tulle and a fragmented
reflection of a satirical comedy about racist lust. Subway cars are like confessional booths.
We remain anonymous side by side looking languidly forward, rocking with the movement of the train.
I trust you. I slide off my sweat-soaked trendy panties made of one hundred percent cotton and place
them on your lap. These will be used for the DNA tests. A thousand years from now they will want to know
who rode these trains. They will reconstruct this very moment, sculpting us with made up gestures and
expressions. The historians will get the outfits right but the anthropologists will miss the verve.