Your perspective: Messy-faced daughter, no make-up, flat shoes, and mangled hair.
You wouldn’t have seen my potential had you not stared at me for twenty-three minutes, approximately. I reference this by our departure. I felt you beaming through my skin like UV rays on a mock leather-tan. I turned; you looked away then averted your eyes again to my inattentive, blemished face. You imagine me assembling myself to leave the train, yet your stop is before mine. You know this by my unwound disposition. I’ve grown uninterested in your interest. You’re still staring and I’m starting to feel uncomfortable. Again, you avert your eyes and ready yourself to leave.
In an impatiently patient manor, you maneuver your way around an exiting bicycle. You’ve already overshot your exiting expression.
An awkward dance and you’ve left, like a broken capillary into the open skin of your embarrassed face.
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