She stands by the railing across the sidewalk from the bus stop on River Road across the street from the train station, looking out over the river, in a long black dress, black fishnet stockings, black heels, and black shades, pulling her long black hair back away from the olive skin of her neck, striking poses; she enjoys being watched. Screwing is a physical need for her, a physical need, a physical urge and a form of performance; posing for a stranger, arching her back, thrusting her breasts, is a lonely act of foreplay.

Her performance is also a reminder that life is too interesting, so today I will get on the bus instead of jumping, will compose a few sentences describing her ride home this evening, seated much too coincidentally across the aisle from me, engrossed in a cell phone conversation, idly scratching her shoulder and in the process almost completely exposing her right breast, completely ignoring both me and the younger variation of herself seated next to me with the same probably-Armenian features, the same olive skin, the same penchant for cleavage, and an almost identical model of cell phone, the two of them not noticing the tall thin, dark-skinned lesbian with the natty hair just starting to go grey wearing the short-sleeved tuxedo shirt unbuttoned to the navel over the flowered demi bra with the two pink-striped Victoria's Secret bags on her lap licking her lips as she looks back and forth between them imagining them naked on their backs kissing each other as she eats and fingers them both to mind boggling heights of pleasure.