When the creep came out of the bathroom he
locked eyes with me at once. I moved my gaze
before he did, and felt oddly beaten-down by
this, as though I'd let him hustle me. His
jacket was battered, his shoes a wreck. The
hair on his head, what there was of it, was
greasy and dark. He looked immoral, and
worse, he looked like he wasn't crazy.

It was the jeans that got me. Deep blue, fresh
and stiffly-creased. They were women's jeans.
It was this detail that stuck, and I realized
that it isn't filth or craziness that arouses
distrust, but incongruity.

He was behind me again. The jeans were new.
I had the repulsive instinct that he'd stolen
them, not just from a store but from a body.
The suspicion made no sense, yet it enraged me.
I planted my hands on the blond surface of the
table and closed my eyes, did the breathing
exercises that Sid does every hour and for which
I have no patience. The jazz music played on.
I noticed for the first time that Starbucks does
not smell like coffee--does not smell like
anything-- and wondered how this could be.


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