Passengers

The woman opposite me has her chin buried so deep in the ruff of her fur coat, at first glance I think she has a beard. I watch a guy run a stick of lip balm around and around and around his lips until he's completed seven circular journeys. His lips are so shiny the reflected neon is blinding my eyes. The girl next to me is reading a French novel. She causes my heart to itch. Her hair is as straight as her posture; when she walks it moves to its own pop song. Her eyes are pale pools of cool water with two small blue yolks floating in the center of milky white. I think I ate something funny for breakfast. Standing in front of me is another girl. Her creamy perfume is filling the carriage, her blond hair is highlighting what we cannot fail to miss. Creeping over the edge of her jeans I see white lace panties. Her makeup conceals her, keeping us safe from her every flaw. She is the type of girl I want to fold napkins with. I hear my phone ring in my head. It's been doing that a lot lately.