Although his black slacks had the sheen of too much ironing, his gait still crackled with pizazz. As he rounded the corner he noticed her camera, stopped short, paused and said, "Put it in a magazine." Startled by his candor, she focused and clicked. It took her a moment to register the lingering sound of music. It was playing at a respectable volume from a device hidden inside his camel colored overcoat. Like a cool breeze, his savoir faire left a light footprint, along with the gift of delight.
The rage of the subway orator was stunted by the equally insurgent singer. He justified his disturbance in the name of God's wrath and her response was passionate pop music. As he declared, you are an abomination in pants, she silenced him with her vociferous lack of recognition, rendering him a false prophet in search of significance.
The nascent masculinity of Robin's neighbor peeked their interest; as did the chilling complicity of his father. Their voyeurism was catnip, its anticipatory character an antidote to the debilitating heat of consummation.
His slight body slithered on the leather seat like fine silk on a geisha. Careful of gossip, with his shoulders at attention and his hands folded loosely in his lap, he delicately laid out the facts.
They loathed arrogance. Its unbecoming nature soothed only the most belligerent of geezers.
Don’t reincarnate me as a human. It’s too much damn work.
I did not worry forward today. Blown out on the breath of asana, my body's expression alchemized the rattle of my brain.
Bulbous drops of rain as clear as gloom bruised his cheeks; camouflauging the convulsions of a hunchbacked, broken man hurdling through the storm.
He ran past as stealthily as a miniature man in elfin shoes.