On the sojourn back to the city of the homeless and the dreamless, I sat next to a shady, mildly attractive man in his mid-thirties. He was wearing a fedora and he smelled of earthy musk. I was both repulsed and attracted to him.
I got the window seat. The bus started to grind along the throughway from Kennedy Plaza and I inhaled his cologne – duly noting that his jeans were the notorious BDG brand. This made him exuberantly less admirable, but it also humanized him.
Three hours go by. Actually, it was more like four and a half. A tear trickled down my cheek as we screeched by East Harlem to West SoHa, before inching down Broadway. I pass 72nd street. My hand grazes against the thigh of the BDG-jean-wearing man. My inner goddess has goosebumps.
We reach Port Authority. I do not ask for the man’s number. Continue Reading