The anonymous, cover-less book in his hand is tattered, as battered as if it had been kicked across America and picked up some new languages along the way:
Reading now in Portuguese, Spanish, English and French:
Russian, Korean, and all the rest.
She is given just a glance and notices after the dance of the subway car, those shifts and dips, getting twisted for the turnings, the tattoo on his left wrist as it peeked from beneath his long sleeve briefly.
She feels the yearning to see it clearly, nearly, as if it were so intricate that she could spend her lifetime studying it and never see it wholly.
Intimately she recognizes the relic around his neck is holy, it’s eye unblinking, it watches over his fortune persistent’, guarding against slipped words which might bring him undue attention, and she prays it will not push her away.
See: she wants to worship at his altar. She wants to flitter, not falter.She wants for wishes to make her ambitious, she wants the wafers and all of the wine.
She knows not the time she has before he gets off the line. Her ride was like life, lingering and lengthy, and her heartbeat had kept quick as commuters abandoned the car and in the shuffle he sat across the way.
Couldn’t be but inches. Wouldn’t be but wrapped twisted in earphones. Wouldn’t take off his pair of girls’ glasses, big lenses blackened.
She bid him brightly beneath barely a breath that played in her head. Wed to the notion, the novel, the palace, draped in refinements both bold and placid as pallid pumpkin turned to chariot drawn by courser mice that will reform to norm when bells toll four times thrice: fantasies, like flatulence, are flat and full hot air.
Looking up from her flight of fancy, she saw he wasn’t there He’d gone, no question that the charm had warbled with her reason when hazards were at bay; she weren’t want to mourn, for next her stop had come, and truth in her desire, she had lost her want to stay.