Groups of three spin into alleys and side streets, some climb wiry catwalks and vanish into the ceiling of fog. With their smell still thriving in my nostrils (gourmet coffee, crisp newsprint, and pine-scented shoe-polish) I wonder what thoughts infest their minds. Their scheme escapes me, like a theme lost among colliding metaphors. My mind conjures theories involving the passengers and I write them on a napkin. Perhaps a crime spree where the perpetrator is released due to doubtful witnesses. ‘I’m sorry, officer, their kind all look the same.’ A haggard district attorney gives a frustrated glance to his watch while consoling a sobbing witness. Between mechanical pats on her back, the witness spits out, ‘How can you decide which one to point your finger at when they all have the same humus fragranced breath?’ My pen, recently taken from a bank’s front desk, slides across the napkin frenetically. Maybe they’d each run for political office under the same name. The local cable. Laurie half blushed as she reached down and picked up the drink she had laid on the side of the tub before entering.The conversation was fairly casual for a few minutes as Steve allowed everyone to get comfortable before he rose up and declared he was getting a drink from the pitcher he left on a table nearby.I watched as Laurie's eyes took in his large dangling member and balls which were semi erect from the situation. Now it was her turn to check him out. He walked thru the water, her gaze following the organ dancing with each step. It wasn't lost on Steve that my wife was fully entranced by this time and was certainly up for whatever else he had in mind."As Steve re-entered the tub, he brought the pitcher and poured first my glass and then walked up and took a position next to Laurie. He refilled her glass standing just a foot away as her eyes darted between his and the package between his legs. He felt comfortable proceeding, feeling confident she would not now rebuff his.
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