She hastily fastened the Free-Trade Cotton Towel around her bosom. It was scratchy, like the paws of her afghan hound Mao. She raced the twelve feet to the other side of her Loft Studio apartment and pushed aside the beaded curtain covering her window, peering out onto Bedford Avenue. She was expecting to see the usual Yarmulke, but instead found her eyes drawn to the black and white houndstooth fedora on the street below. Behind the fedora stood a 1965 Baby Blue Triumph Tigress motor scooter. She gasped, and quickly lit a cigarette. It was a marlboro - she hoped he wouldn't be able to tell.
He reached her landing, his last steps followed immediately by the unmistakable sound of a Bic lighter. She quivered with anticipation. The smoke of his clove cigarette wafted through the cracks in her warped, reclaimed door. It didn't really fit in the frame, but then, neither did she. A single knock was all it took, and she yanked open the door.
She was overcome by the pungent aroma of yeast.
"Are you Agatha?"
A slight nod was all she could muster, and he thrust his loaf forward. She took it into her hands, it was big. Bigger than she remembered. She averted her gaze, but found herself looking at a pair of size 14 high-tops. Her eyes rose to his bony ankles, which poked out provocatively from under his pedal-pushers.
"Is that P-Jack Popsicle and the Theory of Licks?"
She had forgotten about the Hungarian electro-pop emanating from her Bose SoundDock portable iPod speakers.
"You know P-Jack?" She said, cocking her hips to the side, exposing the creamy, unblemished skin of her thigh. "Have you heard them live from Addis Abbaba?" He hadn't. Following her in, he noticed that the shower was running.
"I'm sorry, did I interrupt anything?"
"No, sometimes I let the water run and put on a towel, just to feel something real."
He was hard.
"Let me find the album." She crossed to the Gorilla Coffee Crate that doubled as a nightstand and bent over, fumbling with the clickwheel. As she leaned forward, her towel slipped, exposing a single, ironically large nipple. He put out his cigarette in the burgundy-stained stemless wine glass sitting next to the futon.
He could no longer maintain his disinterest. He strode across the floor and placed his calloused hand firmly on her hip. She turned to face him, and for a brief moment drank in his vacant air of superiority. As he bent down to kiss her, he thought back to his freshman year at Columbia and the Anthropology professor that taught him Ginsburg and anal.
She pulled his hand-stenciled Tamil Tigers t-shirt over his head, pushing him backwards onto her futon. She knew that his cum would taste of weed and asparagus.
Fin












