Current read: Rules of Civility

The crisp sound of plastic ripping under my fingers, the smell of paper, the smooth plane of the cover slightly disturbed by embossed letters, the crowded parking lot, lines of impatient work people, a woman clicks her tongue loudly, a man wipes his sweating nape, a girl staring me down over his boyfriend's shoulder. I looked up once, she looked away. I smirked and read and read and read, my body humming with lust over pages of prose. The van abruptly arrived, the line pushed me forward, I trip over words. Inside the capsule-like vehicle, bodies cramped against each other, shoulder-to-shoulder, elbow-to-rib, knees against the back of the seats, I pray for a short ride home. 

"On Friday nights, we let boys whom we had no intention of kissing buy us drinks, and in exchange for dinner we kissed a few whom we had no intention of kissing twice."