down in me

So here’s me. At the end of one row. Next to me a guy. Next to him a girl, but we’ll see more about her later. Across from me a guy. Next to him a guy. The guy next to me is wearing a suit in a conservative style. The guy across from me is also wearing a suit in a more fashionably conservative style. The guy next to him is wearing a fashionable suit. The guy next to me’s suit is grey. His shirt is light blue. His tie navy. The guy across from me’s suit is navy blue, his shirt is small navy and white checks. The collar is open. He has a five o’clock shadow. Dark hair. Light blue eyes. He reminds me of Hugh Laurie. Or a model for Brooks Brothers. His thighs are large. The guy next to Hugh his suit is brown. It fits slim. His shirt is bright pink. His tie is navy blue with tiny white polka dots. It has a large knot. It is off-centre. He has a brown mop top. His skin fair. His look is carefully constructed dishevelment. This guy, the guy next to Hugh - the guy diagonal - he’s eating a pot of noodles from Wasabi. He’s not using chopsticks, as I expected when he first pulled it out of the bag. He’s shovelling them in his mouth with a white plastic fork. Hugh is looking at the floor. His brow furrowed. He’s squinting to see something far off in his imagination. Every so often, he softly shakes his head no. The guy next to me’s thighs are slim. His legs are long. His face I daren’t look at. He is talking to the girl next to him. He’s excited by the conversation and faintly elbows me every time he makes a point. The girl is also eating. I can’t see what she’s eating out of a white container. It smells like more noodles. This girl, she’s a receptionist. The guy next to me, he’s a sales guy in the same office. They’ve been dating for a month. I’m bored. The guy diagonal finishes his noodles six stops too early. He wipes his mouth with a brown paper napkin. He stuffs everything back in to the bag. He looks like he doesn’t know what to do next. I can see his socks. I can see the outline of his cock. It is pointing left. His pant’s zipper and seam are aligned with the imaginary line that separates his left ball from his right ball. I imagine his ball sack is stiff, hot. Hugh’s pants have a looser fit. Probably his balls are bigger. He keeps shaking no. No. No. The guy next to me and the girl, his girlfriend now that I have deemed it so, they get off at Westminster. A thoroughfare. They are catching another one, to her place. She uses a diaphragm. I didn’t think those were available any more, but they are. It’s in her sensible black handbag. Next to the tampon. Beneath the lipstick. Behind the boredom she’s sating with the salesman tryst.