It reached an inch above her jeans and dangled there upon her hipbone. Whatever greater picture this small black slash was part of—a flower, a symbol, a tribal tattoo—the fantasy was ruined by the entrance of a clod and his mate.
"Welcome to the sliding metal tube!" he announced as he scratched the fly of his jeans. His friend looked up and around as if he'd never been in a badly-lit room with strangers before.
They obscured the woman from me, in her black shirt and Japanese novel. I saw the mark again through the elbows of these animals. They coughed and laughed and had the frat-washed odor of light beer and extreme cologne. The woman eyed them through her dark cuts of hair so that with even this slight glance a world of "are these guys serious" was heard. Or, at least, heard by me, and I fell in love.
"Choo-choo! Choo-choo" our village idiot cried, his drunken friend laughing, the two of them drunkeningly laughing together. And then I saw her laugh, saw her smile, saw her shake her head and those bangs in a "boys will be charming boys" kind of way.
I turned away from the scene and came face-to-face with myself in the window, and I waited for my reflection to tell me what exactly was going on, and how.
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