Perceptions

We slumped into the first set of forward-facing seats as the train doors automatically closed. Slouching down, lauging about some inside joke, we threw our feet onto the seats ahead of us and relaxed, waiting for the end of the line. In the Washington, DC Metro cars, the seats next to the doors face in, perpendicular to travel, and are generally taken up by elderly people, single moms with their children, or weary eyed federal workers with reasonable, comfortable shoes.

As the doors opened at the next stop, four or five people shuffled in and a middle aged gentleman took the seat in front of ours. Both of us, in deference to his presence, took our feet off the seat and sat up slightly. He smiled and nodded slightly, and I returned the greeting. As the train started to move, he struggled internally for a second and then leaned over.

"Excuse me," he started and I perked my eyebrows in the way that shows someone you are listening. "I was wondering if you two moved your feet just now because I'm black."

I was surprised. "Oh... oh no, because I know some people would think it's rude having your feet up."

"I think y'all should make yourself comfortable, I don't mind at all."

"Well thank you." I think I put my feet back up, I can't say for sure. But I kept thinking about the exchange later. My actions, I thought, had been innocuous, polite even. But if it looked like that to him, how could they have been?

No, I hadn't fallen victim to the Fear Of The Black Man On The Street In America -- it was because countless times I had been chastized by teachers to put my feet down, because you have to respect other people's space in public, because he was older than me.

At least, I think?

The Dame

She slinked into the barstool next to mine and threw a smile at the barback washing glasses. It was a smile that men find themselves hard pressed to forget. She laid her clutch on the bar and rummaged through, taking out her phone and flipping it open to check the time or her messages. I ogled her out of the corner of my eye, with nothing better to do.

"What can I get you?" asked the bartender, wiping his hands on a towel. "Hmm... I'm feeling summery... How're your mojitos?" She didn't speak the words so much as purr them. "Best in town," the bartender replied, tucking the towel into his back pocket. She flashed her smile at him and nodded and he went about fixing the drink. I took a swig of my beer and stole the chance to check her out more properly. Black hair, shimmering like the coat of a jaguar. And just as dangerous.

Overheard 7/14

So, did I grab the cock the other night?

I like how it's not "your cock" but rather "the cock."

So that's a yes? I feel like I owe you a motorboat. You can motorboat me.

Yet I can sleep through the building next door burning down?

She dropped me off at my apartment at 7:30 in the morning. I was still half asleep trying to open the door. My bed was calling. I dropped my keys on the table and plugged my phone in to charge. I collapsed on top of the mattress and closed my eyes, trying to fall back asleep.

Outside my window were a number of impediments to this goal. A jackhammer tearing up the sidewalk. A cement saw sectioning the sidewalk for the jackhammer's next project. Some sort of gigantic hammer pounding on steel i-beams. And a construction worker driving a machine that APPARENTLY ONLY WORKS IN REVERSE for some unknown, goddamn, beep-beep-beep-beepy reason.

I made coffee and ate breakfast instead.

Overheard 7/4

Wait, Ol' Dirty is dead?  (the inflected incredulity unfortunately does not translate to text)