(no subject)
A brief bit of prose for you all. Comments and suggestions are welcome.
The first thing that catches your eye are the flippers. In a puddle of water. On the F train. What sort of person rides the F train wearing flippers? Dripping all over the neatly polished-if dirty-linoleum of your home. You sit in the corner like you always do, staring at those flippers, angry at their intrusion. And the feet that occupy them. And the soft, round calves that stem upward, held in the soaked wetsuit that hugs every glorious curve on her body. My God, she’s beautiful. Her hair falling about her shoulders, gleaming blonde in the flickering fluorescent lights as it and the water issuing forth from it accentuate her chest. The colorful fractal pattern on the surfboard in the seat next to her is nothing compared to her face, her big green eyes, her mouth hanging slightly open revealing rows of pearly white teeth as she reads an advertisement on your wall. She laughs, but you only hear sweet music. Then her eyes turn to you, meeting yours, and her smile fades. You, with your grizzled, unshaven face. Your ripped jeans, dirty overcoat, and tattered ACDC t-shirt. Your guitar case with the broken clasps. She looks away, clearly discomforted. Her lips purse together and her cheeks redden. You are handsome, yes, even under all the worn clothes and unnecessary facial hair. But she is too good for you. You detect the pride between those pursed lips, and suddenly you hate her. You hate her and all the beauty surrounding her, with her neatly polished-and clean-rainbow surfboard. It wouldn’t be hard to follow someone dressed as she through the city. Just keep your eyes on those flippers, and on those beautiful feet and legs. Find out where she lives, and pay her a visit come nighttime with the rusty switchblade in your guitar case…
The train stops, and she flops toward the automatic doors as they slide open for her. She leaves a trail of puddles, a moist path for you to follow to her destruction. But you stay. She’s not worth it.
The first thing that catches your eye are the flippers. In a puddle of water. On the F train. What sort of person rides the F train wearing flippers? Dripping all over the neatly polished-if dirty-linoleum of your home. You sit in the corner like you always do, staring at those flippers, angry at their intrusion. And the feet that occupy them. And the soft, round calves that stem upward, held in the soaked wetsuit that hugs every glorious curve on her body. My God, she’s beautiful. Her hair falling about her shoulders, gleaming blonde in the flickering fluorescent lights as it and the water issuing forth from it accentuate her chest. The colorful fractal pattern on the surfboard in the seat next to her is nothing compared to her face, her big green eyes, her mouth hanging slightly open revealing rows of pearly white teeth as she reads an advertisement on your wall. She laughs, but you only hear sweet music. Then her eyes turn to you, meeting yours, and her smile fades. You, with your grizzled, unshaven face. Your ripped jeans, dirty overcoat, and tattered ACDC t-shirt. Your guitar case with the broken clasps. She looks away, clearly discomforted. Her lips purse together and her cheeks redden. You are handsome, yes, even under all the worn clothes and unnecessary facial hair. But she is too good for you. You detect the pride between those pursed lips, and suddenly you hate her. You hate her and all the beauty surrounding her, with her neatly polished-and clean-rainbow surfboard. It wouldn’t be hard to follow someone dressed as she through the city. Just keep your eyes on those flippers, and on those beautiful feet and legs. Find out where she lives, and pay her a visit come nighttime with the rusty switchblade in your guitar case…
The train stops, and she flops toward the automatic doors as they slide open for her. She leaves a trail of puddles, a moist path for you to follow to her destruction. But you stay. She’s not worth it.