She was an aging punk rocker sitting next to me on the train
Orange hair spiked not out of rebellion or nostalgia but mere routine
Doc Martin boots made before they were hip
Leather and denim worn and comfortable
Her ginger perfume betrayed her rough exterior
She frowned at the words Mr. Grisham had written at her.
If I asked her what her favorite Bad Brains song was we could be friends
But that’s not allowed.
I’m a man and she’s a woman and if we aren’t going to have sex we aren’t supposed to be friends