A friend and loyal reader is getting in on the action. He sent me this (he occasionally sends me his own versions), and I thought I’d share:
I am sitting in one of the four solo seats along the port-side wall of a standard-issue MTA bus. She gets on and stands next to me. The initial impression is one of skin. A lot of skin. I try to toe a line between furtive glance and outright stare. I fail. She is in her twenties. That is the least interesting thing she’s in. She’s in exercise short-shorts, and a ribbed, black yoga wife-beater. She has arms carved from stone, defined delts and swimmer’s biceps. I have an unavoidably close view of how well she did trimming her armpits, as she’s holding on above me. (Well, as it turns out). She has her red hair in a bun, no makeup. She is laughing and talking to her (more dressed, similarly aged) friend. I want to shout, “I exercise too! I’m on my way to the gym!”. I don’t.