You ever feel like pushing someone in front of a train?
You could rationalize, you could weigh, you could gauge and you could measure.
You could make a tiny list of pros and cons.
Why and why not.
Or you could make a simple gesture and have your answer.
I don't remember how this day started.
I don't know if I slept in these clothes.
I don't remember the last thing I ate.
I don't remember how I got here.
My hands are chewed.
Raw, scabby and bleeding.
I'm aware of an orchestra of smell.
Iron. Gasoline. Ejaculation. Cigarettes.
The hurt. The annoyed. The futile.
Coffee can fix this.
Coffee and jailbait in daisy dukes.
Coffee and whiskey, and jailbait in daisy dukes can fix this.
I was fit to drive.
But the sun cut into my brain like a sharpened screwdriver.
Cheap.
Improvised.
Fucking scareball.
Anyone I know?
Quiet.
Mercifully.
Counter's clean.
Jailbait's sweeping.
How fucking late did I get here?
She starts with a smile.
It kinda bobs
and follows.
I'm struck.
As always
from the line her thin lips
almond eyes
and sharp cheeks point straight to me.
I dunno what she sees there.
I see a smolder.
Recognition.
Easy tip.
Easy mark?
Just the flit of dialation...
what did the book say about that?
Attraction.
If only I could check her pulse right now.
What'll you have?
How was your weekend?
Wanna fuck me over the counter?
If only.
Transacted.
A twinge of guilt and arousal.
Again with the frilled, scissor-cut shorts.
With a visible crease where bulging tan ass met sprinter's thighs.
Just enough wiggle to salivate.
Just enough bend to stagger.
Wonder what she tastes like with a bourbon and kenya-blend chaser...
I imagine a whisper of cream, sweat
and hints of caramel...
Attack, evolution, finish.
It was a very good year.