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Kecia Lynn

Tonight as usual I notice her staring at me, she at one end of the car and I at the other, but on this night, as the train leaves the city and points its blunt nose towards the suburbs and the countryside beyond, she starts slowly making her way down to my end, and then a seat becomes available across the aisle and down two seats from me and she takes it, still keeping her eyes on me, and she looks just like any other young white woman riding the train, lilac satin shirt untucked over black satin pants and black shoes with thick platform soles, and I pretend to read the latest issue of Black Issues Book Review even though I can feel her watching me, see her out of the corner of my eye, and then the man sitting next to me gets up and I'm thinking sit here don't sit here my God she's actually going to sit here and I feel like I'm speaking aloud and I look around but no one's paying attention to me, they're all deep into their magazines and their conversations, no one's paying attention except her and in no time at all she's sitting next to me in a train car that's getting emptier with each stop and I'm getting warm in my arms and legs and my God between my legs that slow warmth that gets warmer as she tucks herself in and her black satin leg touches my black linen leg, her lilac satin shoulder brushing my gray silk one as she reaches into her bag for something, and I'm amazed thinking my God she's white if I were ever going to do it with a woman it certainly wouldn't be with a white woman and definitely not with a young white woman, they're always so ditsy and giggly and Jennifer Aniston-y and just annoying in general, even more so considering that they can have damn near any man they want, and as a Hershey-skinned-cowrie-shell-wearing-head-full-of-soft-tight-curls sistah I always thought if I were ever going to do it with a woman it would at least be with another sistah, someone beautiful black like me round and soft of body and fierce of spirit, not someone clueless and pale, all angles and bones and pinched nostrils, but this one's not so bony, her round breasts push against her shirt, which is unbuttoned just enough to see a bit of cleavage, and even though there's plenty of room on the seat she sits closer to me and if it'd been just about anybody else I would've gotten up and moved but her arm and leg are soft as they press against mine and she smells so good, a hint of Fendi over something else, something clean and slightly fruity, I guess it's not entirely true what they say about white people smelling like wet dogs, she smells good enough to eat and my God I'm imagining eating her or at least trying to through the slick black satin of her pants, and I put my magazine in my bag and try to sit there placidly even though my breathing's getting a little heavy and I can feel hers getting heavy too, and pretty soon we're the only ones left in the train car and her hair has the same smell as her body, her hair is black and curly, though not as curly as mine, and I look at her and she looks at me and I've had this same thing happen with men, this instant communication that says yes, now, but never with a woman and certainly never with a total stranger and definitely never with a total white stranger who looks like she might have something of the Mediterranean in her even though her skin is pale, and I'm wondering why I feel better that she might not be of the Northern European variety of white person, as though Italians weren't slavemasters, as though there was never an Italian woman who sent a black man to his death simply by insinuating that he had whistled at her, and although I'm thinking these cold-shower thoughts I feel her hand landing lightly on my thigh, innocent but not innocent, and her hand is slim, the nails are long and painted dark rose, and I'm imagining what they would feel like on my back even though I have only the vaguest idea how do we do this? is there a way to do this right? but then I stop thinking about whatever constitutes proper lesbian technique and I stop thinking about which white people are okay to sleep with and which aren't and I concentrate on the heat that's building from where her hand continues to rub my thigh, the rosy nails lightly pressing through the fabric into my skin, and the Fendi-fruit scent rising from her hair and the opening in her blouse, and I find my body turning itself towards her and my fingers going up to touch the slit of cleavage showing, and then my hand is in her hair and her hand is in my hair and we're kissing, mouths open, tongues stroking, going 40 miles an hour in an empty train passing road after country road of cars waiting for the train to go by, and I imagine the people in those cars going home after the train has passed and wondering if it was just their imagination or if they really did see, by God, in a blink of a second, a white woman sitting astride a black woman's lap and them kissing each other, passionately, naturally, as though they've been lovers for years.


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