Paean

Every piece of clothing tells a story — the panties, the bra, the boots, the hemline. I try to read the woman sitting next to me.

A woman, described.

She’s smoking hot, she’s read my blog, and she’s afraid she’ll pale in comparison. She won’t. All I ever think, when things are going well, is “Fuuuuuuuucckkkkk!”

I wish she’d look up.

A friend’s writing about a woman on a bus, an impossibly large iced coffee, and the thrill of summer.

A woman on a train, maybe. Or in a meeting. Dressed to disappear, and failing.

A woman, described.

The flesh visible through her sweater captures my attention and won’t let go.

A woman on the train, so pretty I become a 17-year-old boy.

A woman on the street, described in the detail she deserves.