He reminds me of an ex boyfriend I used to have. His name was Jason King, and the age gap between us was almost as large as Madonna and Jesus.
This man sitting next to me smells the same as he. He reeks of years of addiction and mistakes and I want to lean on his shoulder and wear pink cashmere.
He seems nervous and so am I. I am in a dangerous place. I cross my legs in case he touches me, and soon after he mimics my transition. I smile, and I enjoy the game while it lasts. I come to realise my concrete glare is fixed at his loose tattooed skin and skinny legs.
Each sour breath tells tales of experience and pain. We play and he glances but I am too afraid of the past. We turn and swivel, he tries to run but he is avoided and condemned. I think how hard it is to be dirty.
I take a chance and glance and he is younger than what was expected. A young Brad Pitt, dare he accept it.
I want to ask him, if he ever felt lost. If he ever needed a woman's arms to hang from to replace the needle in his arm. He wears white and he seems so saintly, his smiles withered and pasted. But before I can tell him I love him he walks and leaves, and I sit, silently, and cry with ease.
