henna hair swaying and with commuter clarity applying lipstick. It’s the almost choreographed sureness that draws me. That and how often the train hosts these otherwise private things performed as preparedness.
autumn blue skies, pause. Again. Distant, even an absent indifferent soft envelopment and every metaphor he reaches is, someway, maternal.
keeps a glance on that leather satchel. Lean with the purposeful timidity of the sparrow so when the satchel moves to the floor, making room, he flit skips to claim the seat.
talking around, in what looked like ever smaller circles, didn’t feel like his thing. It could have been the plainness of it all. Maybe he preferred doing? Probably the patina of having not done well, again.