The train stops and she gathers her things. I'm surprised-- doesn't look like the Harlem type. The black guy behind her stands, too. He does.
They exchanged numbers earlier. Maybe now they're off to his place to exchange fluids. I turn my head to the dark window as they approach...
Catching one last glimpse of her straight black hair and piercing blue eyes in the reflection. She looks like a Russian model...
Sounds like a raspy-voiced gift from God. I inhale deeply as she passes in an effort to identify her perfume, but...
It doesn't come. My head's turned away to see her; I can't breathe her, too. Though isn't that what Life is? Choosing to see or to breathe?
The chapter ends. I close the book. My choice is made every day: She's waiting at Grand Central for me, smiling like a schoolgirl.
I hope the two of them have fun tonight. Knowing what you decide not to have keeps that grass on the other side brown. It's got nothing to do with Luck.
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