She

It's morning again-sunrise, clouds, dew on scanty beards of grass and all that jazz. They tell me you can see one and know, I never did, till today. Till I saw her. She looks of fading colours and smells of crowded second-class compartments, her hair in a conflict of blacks and browns and a few strands of mortified whites peeping, unwelcome. It is the face that says it, waiting desperately for attention, with hooded black eyes that pray desperately to send across some message to the one she needs; to me they are stones set with no particular interest. Black, black and some more without mesmerising. They peep through my books, between lines, unexpectedly, moving their lips; hands against glass windows and stoned men who would write about them someday with an indifference, with empathy or just plain hatred. But she, she is of no consequence, wouldn’t attract anyone. I look for the characteristic tongue lapping suggestively. Nothing. She seems to have no mouth but tongues. A lot many, each one biting, eating, lapping suggestively. They are innate now, because a half awake, maroon shirt, blue jeans, dishevelled hair, rush is of no use to her. Her baits are tucked away, her black lips say so, and so does the money tucked close to her waist. She the one with faded colours and smells of crowded second-class compartments. Maybe that is how too much sex smells, or maybe hopelessness.