Corduroy Pants

Puke brown corduroy pants that make my stomach churn with the memory of the feeling and sound of two corduroy-encased thighs rubbing against each other. Red sneaker-shoes with thin grey socks bridging the gap between the shoes and pants. He is wearing a fawn colored newspaper boy-esque cap with black, rectangular, thick, plastic rimmed glasses. He smiles to himself, letting himself in on a silent, personal joke. His light blue jean jacket/shirt is buttoned all the way up to his throat and at his wrists. In his lap he holds a faux snakeskin bag, the brown strap of it crossed over his chest. His top lip protrudes out over his bottom lip and his cheeks are scratchy with stubble. The corners of his mouth are turned down and his hands are tucked in between his thighs, his arms bracketing his bag. His mouth moves and it takes me a moment to realize he is speaking to the woman across the aisle from him and not just to himself. It begs the question of why she has decided not to sit next to him when the seat is open. He moves his arms so they are folded over his chest and a thick, silver band can be seen on his left ring finger.

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