I remove a pair of her underwear from beneath my seat and let it fall to the floor, expecting to hear a thud.
My noble duty as a filer, organizer, money-counter, seal-breaker, critic, sounding board, and appraiser of decaying, unplayable vinyl has begun.
The smoker assesses his companion in all aspects (as both men and women are wont to do) and finds himself repulsed by her squealing giggle and the almost-audible scraping of her thighs.
She’s hunched over papers with a red pen. Her cheeks are more sanguine than usual, possibly due to the apathetic work of her students. She looks up at me without recognition.