I was somewhere west of Nairobi when the k key in my old Underwood stuck and for the next half hour I filled three pages with Kk kk kkkk k kkk kkkkk all in perfect rhythm with the rattle-tat of the train on the rusted rails. "How did they rust out here in the rock, grit and sand?" I asked the conductor.
He just stared at me and murmured, "Ticket."
Finally realizing I was in jeopardy of running out of paper for the typewriter before the trip was over, I stopped the noisy, but inspirational clacking. Pushing the typewriter aside I let my mind drift as my eyes focused on the bead of sweat slowly accumulating on the neck of the young woman sitting across from me. It slowly grew, combining with several other burgeoning droplets and then meandered downward, across her upper chest and then down the flowery valley of her unbuttoned blouse finally to disappear as a damp spot in the material.
As I moved my eyes back up her neck, I heard the words, "Why don't you take a picture, it would last longer."
My gaze quickly flashed up to the woman's dark brown eyes and I was immediately devastated to think such an unoriginal clichΓ© could roll from the lips from the beautiful black woman who faced me. In past lives such beauty was adorned in diamonds, sparkling jewels from the continent set in an elegant tiara, but instead the woman had a gold stud on one side of her nose, had three small hoops pierced through each ear, and a single gold stud in her tongue. I immediately wondered if either of her nipples was similarly adorned and glanced down.
Yes, the outline of her left nipple had an odd kink off to one side and I suddenly felt the need to adjust my posture in the seat. I straightened up, pulling on my pants as unobtrusively as possible to adjust my erection. Looking back at the woman's face I realized she was awaiting a response. Remembering her, not so clever, comment, I took a breath and said, "I'm sorry, it's just that the sunlight sparkled off of a bead of perspiration and I ah... well I guess I kind of stared, please forgive me."
She tilted her head a bit causing the beads tied in her hair to clatter as they rearranged themselves over her forehead and down her neck. With a sly look on her face she said, "Forgive you? Tell me why should I forgive you?"
"Well," I said glancing up the aisle behind her and then turning and looking down the aisle behind me, "It looks like we are the last ones in this car and it would be such a shame to waste the afternoon holding grudges."
She smiled and then leaned forward and whispered, "To be honest, the rocking of this train has made me horny and I've been sitting here wondering what that mustache of yours might feel like running up my thighs."
I hesitated, wondering if I actually heard what she said, if I truly understood her correctly. "Am I to understand that you just asked me to run my mustache up your thighs?"