the lost man chronicles

top-of-the-morning thoughts

As she stared out the window I stared at her, or at least fixed upon and noticed every charming detail of her half-profile mirrored in the window—the still-lake like shine of a lazy sky reflected off her manicure; the gritty allure of the faded denim-blue jean jacket that is all the mode now; the likewise fashionable translucent light-jade-green plastic carry-on riding upon her lap, with the entrapping chrome plated sheen of twisting fasteners; the clear, seemingly white single nylon stitch holding it all together; the shimmering water bottle jangling like Jell-O with the mellow vibrations of the crawling bus careening about corners and curls of the traffic–muted turnpike; the free, likely complimentary, maybe Clinique, black cosmetic case leaning lackadaisically against the green Polar Spring label; the luring five inches of pleated black, single-streak leading to the rounded coquettish edge of her knee, unknowingly piquing me as polyester pants will do, on this wooing, wavering cold-hot Spring day; the way she holds her stare out there, lingering upon whatever thoughts wandering through fields of concrete and steel; the subtle waft of her lilac perfume that triggered this visual swoon of elusive desire and ocular meandering; the sublime manner in which she unknowingly held my attention until our ascension up the ramp and into the cavern of Port Authority.

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