Dear Woman At The Bus Stop,
I passed by you today free from negativity. But you changed all that. I cannot think or feel things the way I had before seeing you. And it's all your fault. You will be taken aback by what can seem like nothing else but an accusation, but it is your fault.
I was less than two minutes from work. Pressed white shirt. Tie knotted in a half-Windsor. Polished shoes. Hair gelled and coiffed. But then I approached the bus stop and there you were.
Your matted, shoulder-length hair hadn't seen shampoo in days. The mottled gray skin of your face forced Wikipedia images of sea mammal hide into my consciousness. Your hunched shoulders, stout legs and chubby arms screamed nosetackle. The faded chartreuse tank top could not hide your soiled bra, whose straps fell to straddle your ample, jiggling triceps.
All these things I could accept and forget in passing. But for the shorts. Those brown baggy knee-length shorts. Rumpled and worn. They hung down the outside of your thigh as best they could. But the fabric caressing your inner thighs lay trapped in the vise-like grip of your crotch. Wrinkled and pinched the shorts received no quarter from your pelvic clutch.
You pulled a hot drag from your Misty Light cigarette as my Chevy rolled past. My breath wheezed in short gasps the rest of my ride. For several minutes I composed myself in the car at the office parking lot. Drawing on reserves of courage, I staggered the hundred feet across the blacktop. It would be hours before I could look myself in the mirror.
Woman at the bus stop, you'll never know the havoc you caused casually waiting for that bus. I now question my choices and decisions of the last decade. How could you stand there so free and uncaring of the world's scorn? True freedom. I salute you and curse you in the same breath.
Regards,
Robert
I passed by you today free from negativity. But you changed all that. I cannot think or feel things the way I had before seeing you. And it's all your fault. You will be taken aback by what can seem like nothing else but an accusation, but it is your fault.
I was less than two minutes from work. Pressed white shirt. Tie knotted in a half-Windsor. Polished shoes. Hair gelled and coiffed. But then I approached the bus stop and there you were.
Your matted, shoulder-length hair hadn't seen shampoo in days. The mottled gray skin of your face forced Wikipedia images of sea mammal hide into my consciousness. Your hunched shoulders, stout legs and chubby arms screamed nosetackle. The faded chartreuse tank top could not hide your soiled bra, whose straps fell to straddle your ample, jiggling triceps.
All these things I could accept and forget in passing. But for the shorts. Those brown baggy knee-length shorts. Rumpled and worn. They hung down the outside of your thigh as best they could. But the fabric caressing your inner thighs lay trapped in the vise-like grip of your crotch. Wrinkled and pinched the shorts received no quarter from your pelvic clutch.
You pulled a hot drag from your Misty Light cigarette as my Chevy rolled past. My breath wheezed in short gasps the rest of my ride. For several minutes I composed myself in the car at the office parking lot. Drawing on reserves of courage, I staggered the hundred feet across the blacktop. It would be hours before I could look myself in the mirror.
Woman at the bus stop, you'll never know the havoc you caused casually waiting for that bus. I now question my choices and decisions of the last decade. How could you stand there so free and uncaring of the world's scorn? True freedom. I salute you and curse you in the same breath.
Regards,
Robert
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