I'm Just A Little Person

Sometimes, I like the window seat so I can scoot across and feel where cute butts have warmed the plastic and fabric underneath. I don’t know what they were thinking when they put fabric on those seats, but because they collect little prickly ions of warmth from little people with infinite possibilities, I know it was the right decision.

I try not to be obvious as I scan for a face I can trust. Every time a new body walks on with a morning coffee, I can sense a phantom tinge of caffeinated bitterness on the base of my tongue. I wonder if he grinds that coffee himself. French press? I wonder if he is growing his beard out for the winter or just too lazy to shave. Either way, it’s very attractive. Scratchy soft.

My pin-up red fingernails extend a little further than usual from the book about spirituality that I so meticulously covered with bright paper as not to get dirty looks from anyone who might think I’m crazy for liking those kinds of books. A dirty look is like a laser; if you happen to catch the direct line of light, it can cause major damage. If anything, they should think I’m crazy for liking to feel a warm seat after another little person gets up and walks away.

If you happen to feel my butt-warmed seat, may you absorb my burned kilojoules with joy.