Worn Skirts

He hadn't worked in a while. That is, he hadn't had a proper office job behind some desk in a while. Nothing that made him rise by 7 and leave by 8 so he could get to work by 9. He'd left the corporate world, the forty hour weeks, he took lunch when he wanted. He got up when he wanted which was later than he should. He was his own boss and his own employee and he had a kind of happiness of sorts. He was doing what he wanted, at least. But he was getting up today, early, to meet a friend downtown. He was taking the train, early, and it had been a while.

When he walked he didn't notice anyone in particular. This was not his crowd, there were no regular players. There were no nods, no winks, no smiles of recognition. Nothing that said, I know you but I don't. When people passed he'd get whiffs, traveling scents that pleased him or didn't. And on the platform he noticed how generally decent people looked, all sunglasses and gym bags and headphones and slacks. But when the train pulled up and the doors open, he was suddenly in a garden, a garden he'd forgotten.

Young professional women. Each one smelled good, smelled better than the last. Hit him in the face with it. Soft skin, rough skin, freckled skin, skin. Rose and blue and cream, black, striped, green and yellow, plaid, everything was there. Blazers tailored perfectly. Darted shirts (blouses?) that drew his eye to the bust. There were heels, high heels, open shoes and maraschino toes. And the skirts. He wondered how long it had been since he'd seen a proper one. A skirt that was being worn. He looked at all the skirts that filled the train, their various lengths, their various legs. The high waist. The fit. The pleats that formed when they spanned two thighs. God, these women were so beautiful, so much better than he was, they were so much. Their hair was reason enough to find an application and fill it out.

But one by one they all got off. There were no nods, no winks, no smiles of any kind. These were women he recognized, but he was nobody they knew. The doors opened at his stop. His friend would be waiting for him. He would drink a black cup of coffee, pouring the creamer in, watching it swirl and change into something different, into something delicious.