You can identify your own flaws by scrutinizing strangers.
I watched a woman from across a platform at the subway station:
Straight, dishwater-blonde hair glimmering in the subterranean fluorescence; striking postureβ a dancer's figureβ and a thrifty ensemble that bespoke good taste in spite of budgetary constrictions.
She pulled a circular compact from her purse the way people in films exhume a pack of cigarettes. Then, in deliberate fashion, she removed a pill and swallowed it.
Birth control is like receiving a governor's pardon in the process of planning a crime. I resent her having that kind of indemnity.
I pass judgment on assumptions of character, high on the blissful soapbox of bigotry.
As that pill crested the ridges of her teeth and met the soft tissue of her tongue, then esophagus, my mind conjured a phantasmagoria of lewd images on the surrounding subway walls--