I am sitting across from a girl on the subway. She’s beautiful. I watch her pick her nose. She licks what comes out on her fingertip. At the next stop she gets off and I follow her. “You know,” I say, drawing beside her on the stairs, “you’re very lovely, but eating what you pick from your nose does a disservice to it.”
We go to my apartment to make love. Afterwards, she lolls against me. She rubs between her toes and tastes what she finds. I take her wrist sharply. “Honestly!” I tell her. “Where did you get these appalling habits?” She shrugs. She laughs, impishly. “Make some tea,” she says.
I sit at the table, sipping tea, when she returns from going to the bathroom. As she picks up her mug, my gaze drifts down to her thighs under my robe. I splutter in my cup, pointing: trickles of urine make their way down. I roll my eyes and shake my head and hold up my hands helplessly.
She giggles. She takes her tea over to the bed and curls up. “Tell me again how pretty I am,” she says, grinning at my consternation. She rolls a finger between her legs and sucks on it idly at the side of her lovely mouth, chuckling, as she waits for my answer.