Wednesday and Chocolate

Poverty Hole Train Station is a rather ugly place, set inside of a tunnel that at least keeps out the rain. Its seats, as with all Metro stations, are thin and designed so that actual sitting, in the truest sense of the word, is impossible without the aid of one’s legs.

I was attempting to find a comfortable position to write in; ever-moving yellow slab of plastic beneath me, left foot out and straining against the floor, right knee over the left knee and notebook unevenly resting upon my knees as I hunched. I was unfortunate—I remained uncomfortable.

A brown woman walked by me, dressed all in black. At first she struck me as a young girl, though after scrutinising her figure for a second or so, I realised her to be—perhaps, as this is merely a rough approximation; a gentleman doesn’t ask a lady her age, though whether she was a real lady or a crass whore remains a mystery to me—around thirty years old. She had brown hair with golden-blonde highlights, curled and tied behind her head, spreading out like a sweet flower of hair spray.

She passes me, sits upon another of the yellow plastic ‘seats’ and then rummages through her bag for some perfume. This is shaken and then sprayed all about her from every angle—even below her gut; a monumentally large organ that I consider momentarily—until the air is now filled with the sweet scent of something marketed to single women as a means to the end of an orgasm caused by wild sex with a mysterious and bizarrely-single handsome young man, too busy or too attractive to shave his neck and chin, whilst his armpits (the man is always topless in advertisements for perfume) are often kempt and well-kept.

This person, sitting one spare place; one foot; twelve inches; thirty centimetres away from me, impresses upon me the fact (not idea) that she takes good care of herself in every aspect other than physical fitness, for soon she fishes in her bag once more—such is her skill that no ‘rod’ is required—and pulls forth a chocolate bar. I watch her take care not to damage the perfect petit bâton du plaisir with her long-pink-false-fingernails, before undressing it. Its blue plastic coating melts away like a woman tossing away her dress in one swift motion, and the rippled skin of the ‘Wispa’ bar is naked and the same colour as her face, her hands… her neck.

“Oh, mon cher, you must not live a chaste life without self-indulgent consummation de chocolat! Lick it: I want to see the contrast of your pink tongue and chocolate and chocolate skin.” I silently provoke whilst sure that my eyes would convey this if she were to realize and look into them, unable to remove my gaze from the gluttonous girly-woman and direct it elsewhere, for this obese woman swallowing a chocolate bar whole is in some way both delightful and desolate; horrible and happy; a joyous tragedy!

Just beneath the cotton layer covering her chest is a black or ‘bisque’—she strikes me as the sort who’d wear a mundane colour like ‘bisque’ on her underwear—bra, cupping and supporting her large water-balloon-breasts, dark with darker-still and typically large areolas.

I’m staring. She notices me staring. Embarrassed, she stands whilst I politely return to writing. I’ve written the entire scene in a hastened scrawl! It is burned into my memory. Vaguely, I see her board the train on another carriage, her parting gesture the crinkling of the thin blue robe that was once around the chocolate bar now boiling inside of her beer-belly. The train disappears. I sit. I forget about her for some time.

Instead, as I doze lazily upon something slightly more comfortable than a bed of nails; weary, it’s raining, bleak and dreary, I ponder dark Egyptian princesses with wide green eyes, more beautiful than the ruby-red rubies that adorn their black dresses, with their gold and their bare feet and their long dark hair. Bare feet? Suddenly I am taken back to that first night with my first girlfriend: the soles of her bare feet press softly upon my chest and her legs are slightly spread, her emerald eyes are wide with anticipation of the act to follow.

My dreaming is ruined by the violent rocking of the train and my head cracks against the window. I get off at the next stop then begin to walk towards my doorstep.

I clap my fist into my palm and mutter, with some excitement, “I know! I’ll write about her!” I take my dictaphone from my pocket and speak into it from memory, then find my desk and begin to type. Certainly, she deserves a chapter.