“Hey!” someone behind me screams.
“Jesus Walks, God show me the way…”
I am lost in the newspaper, headphones in place and walking along the platform at the Damen Blue line stop in Wicker Park.
“Jesus Walks with me, with me, with me…”
“Hey!” they scream again, followed by a playful shove to the back.
I remove my headphones. It’s her and she’s all smiles. I’m still conflicted about whether I think she’s attractive, with her buzz cut, crazy angular features and harsh cheekbones. She could almost pass for a dude, a boy really, but for her breasts which are swelling under an ancient Smoking Popes T-shirt, those hips, just climbing above her baggy jeans, and that ass, that golden ass.
“Where’s your head at, man?” she says smiling, but intense, hungry.
She adjusts her T-shirt. Was I staring at her chest? I need to watch that, but can it really be avoided? I don’t know. I don’t even really know her. I once knew her, sort of, before I was married, though you wouldn’t call it a friendship exactly.