He passed her in Times Square. He knew he passed her because he passed her several more times. He couldn’t stop staring at her breasts. Staring was free unless he stepped too close. Too close meant he’d be lobbied into a hug and squeezed into leaking money which he didn’t want to do. This had happened twice before. Since then, he’d grown more clever about his distance. Close enough to absorb her saucer areolae, yet far enough away to avoid detection.
Unlike the other women with painted stars and stripes, this woman’s generous breasts were bejeweled with oblong reptilian scales. The scales were stroked in iridescent blues, turquoises and golds one merging into the next. The result was a fluid rainbow of liquid nature. Besides the soft roundness, maybe it was the exotic scales attracting him though no specific exotic reptile came to mind.
He had a thing for snakes. When he was a kid, he’d taken a summer snake course. His favorite snake to hold was the albino constrictor. At fifteen feet and weighing over three-hundred pounds it was the biggest snake in the classroom. The snake’s irises were brilliant pink with intense red rings around the outer edges almost like his, except his eyes didn’t have fiery rings. Not that anyone ever saw his eyes.
He wore dark glasses that only came off in blackest black. His pink eyes gave him superhero night vision. That’s what his mom used to say until she got sick and died and he couldn’t save her. That’s when he knew he wasn’t a superhero. His mom had had shimmering eyes of the lightest blue like a glass sky at 10 am. His mom would most certainly be disappointed if she knew he was using his superpower to stare at women’s breasts. The dark glasses made staring easy. Very few people could stare at breasts undetected. Sometimes he fancied he still had a special power, never super though, not any more.
Whenever he thought about his mom he missed her terribly, then he’d stop staring at breasts and cry. He was glad his faithful bicycle was always nearby. There was no other way to get around the city but on a pedal-pushing wheeler. Many times while riding his bike–the color of 6 pm winter indigo, its black knobby wheels would smooth out and become snakes. The giant yellow, splotchy snake would split itself in two–a viable severed worm–and wrap around each spoke tire.
He was happy to have albino anaconda wheels. Against the city’s uneven asphalt, his snake tires slithered at reptilian speed. He always arrived at his room in record time on the days he had spoked snakes. On the terrible days when he had rubber tires, pedaling taxed him. The distance from Times Square to his little speckled room was longer than all Manhattan’s bridges tied together with string. That’s what a snakeless journey felt like. On these days he’d be so exhausted, that when the woman who called herself Lynda Carter crawled into his bed, she’d start out all bumpy and curvy but then she’d turn into a snake with a long, red flicking tongue. She had breasts like Wonder Woman’s too, except her hair wasn’t dark and powerful and shiny. It was dirty yellow and brittle like the haystacks in his backyard growing up. He didn’t like touching Lynda Carter’s dead hair because it made him cry and think of his old dog he called Dog.
Whenever he cried and thought of his old dog, Dog, he missed him terribly almost as much as he missed his mother. Some days when he was really tired because he didn’t have snake tires and Lynda Carter was flicking her tongue at him, he’d think about Dog. On these days he didn’t like albino snakes or superheroes. It was Dog he wanted to pet, not Lynda Carter even when she said he had to hug her because she tied him up with her, “lasso of truth.” Dog had always made him feel safe. Whether he was tired or not, he could always find sleep when Dog was beside him. Dog would never have allowed Lynda Carter to slither into the bed. Dog had shielded him with soft golden fur. The warmth of Dog’s light was the only thing that ever reached beneath those dark glasses to comfort his dry, red-ringless pink eyes.
Again, I appreciate if you actually read this. It is a long piece like a snake. I’m trying the flash fiction form out and will post a piece here and there. The idea of writing a story capsule that one could swallow in one sitting is very appealing to me. Obviously, this particular piece found its inspiration in the recent headlines about the goings on in Times Square.The young man in this story followed the writer’s path who took a snake class when she was eleven and got to cuddle many slithering sidewinders. Her favorite–the albino python.