Scopophilia

On my way to a seder last night, I picked up a bottle of kosher wine at my local. The woman behind the counter, who had to lean over to point out the selection and then lean over to scrape off the bottle’s price tag with a razor, was using advanced technology to lift and separate, forming a spelunkable plunge betwixt the valley of her dolls. They were under pressure like champagne corks. I tried not to Tex-Avery my eyeballs into the depths. Instead, I closed my eyes and thought of the Queen.

And on the way home, there was a woman sitting on the subway I kept glancing at. She was not a conventional beauty, but I find conventional beauty bland and boring. This woman was mesmerizing. She had a jaw line out of a 1930s comic, and wrote in a notebook with a determined grip on her pen. There was something about her that reminded me of the Poet. I really wanted to say something. What? “You have an amazing jaw”? I couldn’t see her ring finger. She actually got off at my stop. I could hear her shoes clacking behind me as I went up the stairs.