BLACK HEARTS

1. lace stockings

AYANNA

Every Wednesday I found myself waiting for the G train.

This morning was no different.

I checked my watch as I walked up the subway platform, the four-inch pumps on my feet clicking against soiled concrete. Two in the morning. I had at least ten more minutes before the next arrival. If I was lucky. Standing in these shoes wouldn't do it. In a show of disrespect, I sat down on the wooden bench, helping my Dior trench to some good ol' fashioned New York grime. Crossing my legs, I pulled the stocking up higher on my left thigh.

He'd gone all out this time.

The tags on this week's lingerie had prices listed in Euros. I hadn't bothered to look up the exchange rate so I only had a faint idea of how much it all ran for. Didn't matter. Money wasn't a concern of his. Too bad I'd never wear any of it again. It was hard for me to remember a time when the deliveries hadn't arrived on my brownstone steps. It was always the same: do whatever was inside justice and never put it on again. He had it set up that way.

Impatiently, I glanced at the screen of my phone again. Four minutes had passed. Time tended to stand still around now, but I had to admit there was something comforting about being in the bowels alone; the only things keeping me company being the drip-drop of sewage and something I pegged for a rat skittering across the rails. He didn't understand my choice of transportation. The New York City transit system. while touted for its accessibility, didn't have the best reputation when it came to cleanliness or stats. Guess it said something that none of the above bothered me. I was used to this shit. More inline keeping company with vagrants than private drivers.

Like my main man on the approach.

Dude was wasted, whatever he'd been sipping on hanging off him the same way his clothes were. Too busy muttering to himself, he didn't seem to notice me at all. For a drunk, potential schizophrenic, he didn't look so bad. What really got you when you looked at him was the wear. You didn't need to have hands touch you to be cut down to size.

Not too long ago, I'd had the same expression.

Our gazes didn't meet as he passed but they hit their target. Red eyes were on my exposed thigh. My cleavage, more ambition, and strategically placed padding, than god-given, also got some love. His grumbles tapered off once he sat down at the next bench over. Staring straight ahead, I kept a smile as I heard the tell-tale sign of a zipper. A muffled moan followed. The sounds he couldn't help but make increased, echoing in the hollow space. The freak in me always wanted to look. Once again, I reframed. It bothered him when I played the voyeur.

"I like this pair," he mumbled.

How could you not? The hand-stitched lace gave the hose that extra something special even if it itched. "Thanks," I replied casually, "It's all for you."

Making it last clearly wasn't a thing to him because soon enough, four-letter words were falling out of his mouth. The hand went into overdrive. I really hoped he used something. Friction like that would cause anybody third-degrees. We usually had our privacy during moments like these, but fate, the bitch with the sick sense of humor, had other plans. There were footsteps on the stairs nearest to me. New York City was an all-day, every-day kind of place, but never had I ever run into another person here.

Except for my wet friend.

Once the intruder emerged, I eyed him warily. When he noticed the unmistakable motions of our neighbor then my bare thigh, a quizzical amusement crossed his face. He stopped where he was, hands stuffed into the pockets of a letterman jacket ascertaining that the situation was exactly what it looked like. I sized him up in return, considering the threat, and found none. I stayed ready, prepared to defend myself in any situation, but schoolboy couldn't do me in if he tried. I'd taken on bigger and badder and would do so even if the cards were stacked against me. The only one oblivious was my counterpart.