(c) 2015 Vikram Kolmannskog
I’m sitting facing what we leave behind rather than the direction of movement. I’m listening to love songs. Stay with me, Do you remember, it’s that summer. Can I listen without starting to cry in public, I wonder. I look around.
An older gentleman in a beige suit, white hair, drinking Evian, sits on the other side of the aisle. He takes out an iPhone and snaps a few photos. Green mountains, sky, clouds, light, in movement. I think about NSA from Grindr – I googled it – no strings attached.
A lady in purple skirt and make-up and mischievous smile sits diagonally across from me. She’s reading, Nos Secrets de Famille. Using her feet she slips off some sandals and puts, provocatively, the bare feet on the empty seat by the aisle, effectively fencing me in.
A young man enters, excusez-moi to the purple lady and sits down next to her, by the window, straight across from me. I pull my legs back a little, giving space for his. French looking, I think. Slim, well-groomed, glasses, summer blond beard, shirt that’s tucked up to reveal summer blond arms and some visible veins, open at the neck, a little hair on the chest. He takes out a book, Zola, so French, puts it on the table between us and leans a little forward.
I’m tired and sink into the seat. Can I stretch out one leg? I do, don’t bump into him, am probably slightly on the side of, or in between, his legs. Falling asleep now, I think. And then contact, a light touch against one side of the leg, then both. I’m in between. Merely a momentary touch, but the sensation of the light pressure lingers. I open my eyes, meet his, bleu, the purple lady sleeps, pulsating penis, la bite. Under the table, our table, us three in this moment, and no one to see. Massive mountains meeting clouds. He’s wearing shorts, hands on his thighs, straightens them. Gazes, heart hammering, Zola on the table, train rolling along the tracks. He leans back, closes his eyes, winks at me? I put on my headphones, You wish by Nightmares On Wax, close my eyes, sense from the inside that I’m smiling. I let myself sink into the chair, knee forward, must be near his crotch now. Knee falls out to the side, against the inside of his thigh, a warmth, and then a hand.
Suddenly I wake up and see a man in a black T-shirt across from me, clean-shaven, other eyes, and the purple lady smiles again.
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Vikram Kolmannskog is a gay man living in Oslo, Norway, writing fiction and non-fiction in both English and Norwegian. His texts have been published in electronic and printed media, including Erotic Review, Bent magazine, Gaylaxy and Pink Pages.
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