The line I am in will not move. It never does. Regardless of which airport, supermarket, or Grand Central Station I am in, the line I choose is forever frozen. Still, better this than the ticket machines, with the slightly off, incredibly frustrating touch screens that first force me to type my name on the illusion of a keyboard, then choose a train from the list at random, forcing me to begin again. My hands have better uses.

The next line, the one with the cute blond in the running outfit, is moving. The next line always moves, but not quickly enough for her. She is bored, and impatient. She needs to run, to move faster, to do something. She looks around in desperation.

I love her thin purple shorts, so little between my hand and the source of her pleasure, so easy to make her come. I catch her wandering eye. She glances down demurely, blond hair curling even heavier over her shoulders, revealing the dark roots now hot beneath my labored breath.

Time has curled in upon itself, and tense has lost all meaning.

I have abandoned myself to the madness that suddenly interrupted her ladylike yet caged demeanor; the madness that stepped out of line, grabbed a wrist, and dragged; the madness inherent in the first summer day of April; the madness that has wedged two strange sweltering bodies into a dark corner between a pay phone and an otherwise useless ticket machine, watching the crowds of commuters slow down and speed up with the pace of my right wrist, with the level of pain in my bitten left hand, with the ache of her small unattended breasts, with the pleasure of her ass through her thin purple shorts tiptoed back and rotated against my raging erection, ala Koyaanisqatsi.