Flashed

On my walk to Porter, a loud male voice behind me:

"HEY! How d'you work the zoom?"

A moment later, the same voice, almost plaintively: "How d'you work the zoom??"

I look around. There's a minivan with some people inside it. It's parked in front of one of the ubiquitous two-families, where a young woman is leaning out an open first-floor window, grinning. She has very blond hair and a tan, and she's wearing a baseball cap. The voice's point of origin in this tableau is unclear.

Something about the way the woman's playing with the hem of her tee shirt suggests that she's considering flashing her breasts. As a city-dweller, my training is to watch the window while pretending to be preoccupied with something else. I find, though, that my Burningman conditioning is stronger in this case, and a Burner would never pretend to ignore an interesting exhibition. So, for what it's worth, I stop, I stare, and I grin.

A bit more fidgeting, and the shirt hem rises. For a moment, broad dark nipples are exposed to twenty-degree Boston air. Then the shirt is down, and she's moving away from the window with an aura of accomplishment. I'm late for my train. I hurry on.

[/diaries/diary/observed/] 1 comment