November 17 - 817 Miles to Albuquerque

She gazes distantly out the window at the landscape speeding by: paths she'll never walk, trees she'll never sit beneath, gas stations she'll never stop at for fuel and/or a snack.
Her smooth, beefy hand reaches up and touches the necklace that rests enviously just above where her unapologetically heaving bosom begins, and I briefly consider switching to Buddhism in the hopes that I will be reincarnated as that gloriously blessed piece of jewelry.
Her sumptuous mouth opens and takes in the final swallow of Mountain Dew Code Red.
Then, sated and caffeinated, she wipes the remnants of the Dew from her wispy moustache.
Slowly.
Oh so achingly slowly.
The playful minx.
And then she checks both ways, leans forward, and tosses the 32 ounce plastic bottle under the seat in front of her.
And it is that moment that freezes in eternity.
The planets align, her blouse hangs low, and I'm blessed with an unfettered vision of Paradise.
Her cleavage.
It is a wonder filled confluence of lust and treachery, an R-rated Disney World, a dying wish, a flesh spelunker's Shangri La.
I have died and gone to heaven.
But not literally.
What I mean is I'm still here, still alive.
And I'm still gazing at her heaving sweater gifts.
And then suddenly, her eyes are upon me. Twin pools of mystery, delight, summers on the farm.
"You looking at something?"
Her voice.
Oh God, her voice.
She's a smoker by the sound of it, and oh, to be one of her cigarettes! Held delicately but firmly (chewed?) between her luscious and only slightly chapped lips. Burned alive, my essence breathed into her lungs to give her a moment's pleasure. A suicide mission for which I would readily volunteer.
"Well?"
And now she's staring at me.
Patiently isn't the word that comes to mind.
I am transfixed, stunned into silence.
"Perv," she says.
Perv.
What is this strange and wonderful word? What could it mean? Sit with me? Pleasure me? I am tempted to ask the other Greyhound passengers, but that would spoil the fun.
Besides, ours is an exchange that is only big enough for two. She is the enchantress, I am the enchanter.
No. Wait. I'm not the enchanter. What am I?
Never mind that now! She's turning away. The challenge has been laid down. I must win back her attention!
Say something, dammit!
"I like your tattoo," I say. Boldly, full of confidence.
She feigns bewilderment, for that is her way, the elusive vixen.
"This?" she says at last. "This is a scar, you asshole."
And it is, of course it is. After all, who would choose to put a six-inch tattoo on the top of her scalp? Not her, not my buzzcut beauty.
"Just leave me alone, creep."
A piercing barb.
Her words sting like stingers, like hornet or wasp stingers. No, wait. Her words are like a honeybee that stings you just when you are about to taste that sweetest of honeys.
But doesn't she realize that when the honeybee stings, she seals her fate?
I am about to ask her this when she beats me to the punch.
"And for God's sake, pull up your trousers."
Perhaps she is not concerned about her fate.
"I said, pull up your Goddamn trousers."
And with reluctance, that is exactly what I do. As always.
And having accepted my conciliatory gesture, she turns her attention back to the latest issue of Guns & Ammo, triumphant--for now.
But it is a long ride to Albuquerque. She may have won this opening battle, but my war for affections has only just begun.