23rd
Women - I
Her body slithered up into a perfect S shape into a waist that was Audrey Hepburn small. Daddy long legs slide up an a-line skirt up to her armpits, a thick mass of chocolate hair curling slightly at the ends past the tiny dimple in her back.
What did this creature’s face look like? I looked for a clue from the one man she passed on the subway platform, but he didn’t look up from his paper. I guessed that her face wasn’t as pleasing as her body — she touched her hair and fidgted with the lines of her skirt too much, suggesting none of calm power felt by a naturally stunning woman. When I got closer I saw that her shirt was a Strawberry outlet shade of green, that her face was painted into a mask of otherwordly hues.
When her skin still shimmered she had probably done some modeling in Russia, maybe Hungary. In years from now her face may even adorn TV screens in Brighton Beach lounges. The soft lighting would tone down the makeup as a plump diva would belt out her torch song. If she stayed on that screen no one would notice that she had packed up and left for a train heading to nowhere.
The time to study people on the train is not in the rush of a morning or evening commute. The people to watch exist in between the lull of sirens and a raised coffee mug, and this is when I watch.
