Your name. Every night it carries me to sleep. What is your *name*?
The reasonable choice is Jennifer. Probably Jen to your friends. Around 1980, when I was born and, I suspect, you were too, basically every American girl got the name Jennifer.
Jennifer. Oh, sometimes when I fantasize about our first exchange, you surprise me with a name more exotic like Lisette or Deanna, but it never sticks. The next night you are Jennifer again. You’ll always be Jennifer.
You ride the 19 south to work. You embark at 7 AM at SW Jefferson and Broadway, and step out again at the last stop on Macadam. You keep your head down and earbuds loaded as you float closer to the back row, closing in on the seat I’ve worked to keep open. Knowing my eyes are fixed, begging. Knowing you rule me. I don’t bother trying to hide it anymore. I’m yours.
You sit down indifferently, mercifully to my left. Handbag on your lap. Skirt to the knees. Makeup impervious. Nose in your phone, thumbs dancing. All as usual. I breathe.