I am sitting in the train and wondering whether how imaginary a barrier it is that queer people cannot flirt at random.I know, I think, that everyone has the barrier and that everyone’s seems impenetrable.

Oh, but you are lovely. And I am in a way satisfied with your loveliness.

I do things that are not “stare at you.”

I notice again the clever mechanism they use to slide the posters seamlessly into the train walls.

I look at your shoes.

 I listen to the typical Boston-voiced guy talking on the phone. About that “crazy fucking bitch.” And how many times he has been to probate court. (So. Many.)

I notice your old phone.

I do not guess how old you might be because it is not important. I cannot make it important.

I’m sorry that the probate court guy lost his mother. I’m sorry that I know it too. I wonder if his ex-wife really is crazy.

The Asian woman next to you is in the pictures I stole. If you didn’t know me, you might not know whom I was photographing. If you didn’t know me (and you don’t.) you might not have known I’d steal three pictures.

    
 Maybe she is less in the photos than I thought.

Ha!

We will see how long it takes me to delete these.

Advertisements