To the girl changing her clothes on BART Next to me
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We sat there shoulder to shoulder you and I. You were like any other morning BART rider in your puffy jacket with its little fur lined collar. I noticed you, thought you were Asian because of your hair and build. It turned out you weren't. You unzipped your jacket, not strange in the least on a somewhat muggy train on a rainy East Bay morning. You pulled it off to reveal a skimpy little wifebeater tank top. I was still reading my notes and editing some crappy document I'd been working on all evening and morning. You never noticed me. Then you began applying some erotic body lotion, well, probably regular body lotion, but it seemed erotic to me. You just rubbed it on your bare arms and then into your hair and the smell of citrus was overpowering. Then you pulled on a small pink t-shirt to go over your tank top.
You see, there would be no story for CL if that had been the end of it. I am a horny 33 year old guy and you are a gorgeous and probably a bit naive 20 year old girl (naive about what 30-something guys in suits are thinking while they are "editing" documents on BART).
So you don't leave at that, do you? Nooooo-oooo, no you don't. You take out what has to be the smallest "skirt" ever made of denim fabric. Frayed all around the bottom edge and skimpy. I mean tiny and nothing on this skirt. I'm 33 - did I mention that? - so, maybe it's my age talking and all the girls wear those nowadays, hell my high school girlfriends didn't even know what a thong was.
You pulled that over your little black leggings, sat with it just off your butt for a full second or so, as if thinking about how you were going to pull it up and over. Then you sort of lifted your ass (yes, at this point I started to think of it as an ASS that I wanted to touch), and humped it over. OK, I think sitting next to you as you bump your elbows into me. I'm cool. You zip up the front of the skirt and snap the little button.
You didn't notice that I hadn't made one tiny mark on the paper in front of me the entire time you had done this. Again, though, you didn't stop there. Now, you start pulling the black pants off under the skirt and reveal your brown bunny legs, shaved close; i can see your pink thong (I feel bad about that part, honestly I do; I'm actually an OK guy who wouldn't normally watch closely out of respect). What the hell am I supposed to do at this point? We're sharing a goddamned BART seat?
You pull those all the way off and begin again applying citrus smelling lotion to your legs, your long black hair brushing my arm as you reach down and rub your thighs and calves. Jesus, woman, you're killing me I want to yell. I gotta think about something else, I say to myself. Focus on editing. Your skirt comes down abuot one full inch from your hips. I measure mentally and carefully, only using about one eighth of my vision capability (one quarter of one eye, for all you scorekeepers out there). Perfume, bare skin, rubbing your thighs, hair brushing my arm. FOCUS ON EDITING! How old do you think she is? FOCUS ON EDITING!
You pull out leg warmers and put those on over your calves and then sit there, sort of jumping up and down trying to pull your skirt down a little better, that tiny piece of fabric ain't gonna cover much pore of you I want to say. But I'm keeping quiet. You bump up and down tugging at your skirt as the train bumps up and down all through the tunnel. I sigh. Think about baseball. This girl's about 16. I reassure myself that 16 year olds are in high school at this time, not changing into stripper outfits on BART heading into San Frnacisco.
We pull in at EMbarcadero and an older African-American woman tells you goodbye and you say bye back, so I guess she didn't disapprove. And neither did I really.
BUt maybe I am making too big a deal out of this. I got off the train at my stop and looked back into the car; you were standing and tugging at your skirt some more, little pink baby doll shirt and frayed denim fabric around your waist.
You never glanced at me once. I started to think later about how to a 20 year old a 33 year old has become invisible. Rest assured that you change clothes next to me like that on BART, you are not invisible to me.