"you're not my type but i want to fuck you so bad." he clutched her hand with conviction. she hated him. her destination was chicago and she had run out of wine in minneapolis.
the tracks were rotten evoking wild shudders in the train car and she pretended not to hear him through the violence. her goal was solitude but she had no aptitude for seclusion. the more she wanted it, the less it came.
he was ready to come. fleeing responsibility and catholic guilt, he was running to ohio after a divorce and DUI. his hand created condensation between her fingers like wet wool and he spoke explicit desire to her with a mid-west peruvian accent. the restroom door quickly read occupied.
she perched on the plastic toilet seat, skirt up and tights down. staring into the ornate buttons of his shrunken pants, she ate ideas of surrender. surprisingly, he spun her 180, arms and elbows crashing into the paper towel dispensor. her ass faced him and he noticed something.
"the birth mark on your left cheek - it's beautiful!" he knelt down to investigate, pushing her face into the vinyl wall. "there is something about you. what's your name again?" that was it. she wrangled up her underpants.
at home she had an artist man. they doodled together, argued, and kissed passionately. he was a cancer and so was she. two crabs pinching each other's potential. he was intensely jealous of her goals and she kept several. he didn't want her to travel alone, aware of her inclination for outside affection, yet they tended to find orgasm in unison, like symbiotic creatures of the same ocean. so why was he so worried?
periodically on the tracks a petroleum flame burned to keep the rails free. it smelled foul and everyone in the coach car pretended not to notice. she wanted nothing but fire but she hated the fragrance of it. waiting for someone who burned blue, she applied berry chapstick.
