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Rated: 18+ · Poetry · Adult · #2069246
Teenage angst gives way to the angst of a frustrated business man crowded into a subway.
Pretty girl
Not a woman yet, but old enough to be one
Children don't ride her shoulder
Subway car quiet
Yes the car rattles and rages and screams about us but other than the tinny rhythm escaping from headphones, utter silence
Phones don't click anymore, pencils don't scratch, pages don't turn
Only fingers occasionally flutter disturbing only the air
I swear she followed me in
Ok, that is a lie, I followed her with my eyes and they brought her in with me
Bodies pile in, stop by stop and she moves closer
Not gorgeous, not a model, just pretty
I cannot move, the other bodies press about me, I hold on to the rail above my head and I just don't move
Clean and young
Too young to be called a woman by my reckoning, a girl
Others would have been calling her a woman for years, mature, self-sufficient, employed
Beyond the years of necessary school, call her a woman if you like, but children don't ride her shoulders
If a husband does, he hasn't sagged her face much less her carriage
Girl to me, she is other than me. Doesn't belong in my world much less this hurtling sausage casing filled with silent seething humanity
Tweed suit tight with slacks, her mother wore skirts and not so comfortably
Prep school girls and dancers wear those thing, why would she?
Too pretty, these thoughts should not even occur to me but I am a beast in a suit
Buttoned jacket and stiff collar chafes at my neck
Its restraint causes frenzy
I don't want her, don't presume to misconstrue, it is stronger and sadder than that
She represents something I can no longer aspire to that I still want to touch
I don't want to touch her but the movements of the commuters about inch her closer
I still can not move
I know with a certainty born of hope and dread that she will touch me
Some inconsequential shift and a bit of me will contact a bit of her and I could prevent it
But I won't even though I think I know how much it will hurt
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