Moles and curls

The bus turned me maudlin -- or even more maudlin than the production of Romeo and Juliet I saw tonight. I saw a couple and had a sudden realization that the fantasy of love was highly improbable for me. And it is likely my own doing: beyond chance, what materializes in this realm is our own fantasy. And I've descended into nihilism.

Also on the bus: peacocks and bangs and Puma sneakers. Skinny pants. Adornments. People living and enjoying the fantasy of coupling. And in my past: shamelessly smooth skins devoid even of freckles and moles.

"He had a clean, vertical, metallic smell about him." Or, "I loved how at night, when the artificial odors of his laundry had faded, I could smell the oil of his beard." Also: "Just hearing him switch from conscious nose breathing to that slower, slightly wet mouth breathing of his nightly peace would be enough to silence my mind and drop me finally to sleep." And don't forget the unknowns: "I watched the curls turn gray over the course of six years."