It is in this silent black morning time, with dawn approaching soon, the train mostly empty, its occupants asleep or too far away to matter, the conductor in another car engaged in business that will take at least until the next stop to complete, that Oliver and his companion for the evening, clothed only in gauzy pink Calvin Klein, submit to tedious passion.
Her hands are in his hair and he is bored - posture speaks volumes - even as their tongues ravenously intertwine.
The scuffling against vinyl train seats gives way to the sounds of a zipper being lowered, there are flashes of pink and charcoal and a bit of blond slides sideways out into the isle then vanishes.
I imagine her bored also, pornography bored, slack-jawed and with a sucking
action that to her is as rote as the jaw motions required for chewing bubble
gum.
