Author's Commentary
Again, ignore the grammatical/spelling/plot errors.
In progress. Just tell me what you think, and how I can improve it.
It was probably a bad idea to leave a stranger alone in my place, especially knowing her rough situation. I was giving her an ample chance to make some easy money at my expense. Granted, my home didn’t have much to steal, but I wasn’t so financially stable that I could handle being robbed.
I ruffled through these thoughts as the bus jostled and jerked to each stop. I decided to change the subject in my mind to what I was going to do for breakfast. I got off the bus earlier than usual, and walked to a nearby faux-Parisian bakery that I had noticed occasionally on my way to and from work.
I strolled into the bakery, and was surrounded by the over-bearing thick smell of fresh bread. The cashier greeted me with a nod, and the common eyebrows-raised, mouth-open expression employees gave in anticipation of an order. Pressured slightly by this, I glanced over the menu and ordered the first familiar item. With croissant in hand, I found an empty table.
After a few bites, I acknowledged that I was no Frenchman. I left it sitting, half eaten, on a napkin as I looked in to opposite wall. My head fell back into a stream of thought. I started to analyze a mental image I had taken while in the apartment.
She was an attractive girl, even if she was sixteen, I admitted to myself. She wasn’t so pretty in conventional ways, but her features had some latent and obscure, yet intense beauty. I had noticed this when she spoke, and they began to dance, despite the ugliness of the subject, elegantly and unencumbered through her facial expressions.
Her body seemed mature and complete in development, beyond her years. Her breasts, likely in the range of a B-cup, were, as far as I could tell, round and full, perked enough to make their point in the loose layer of my oversized shirt…She was a thin girl, slimmer from several days of malnutrition, but her hips had been able to accommodate the elastic band of my boxer shorts. Her legs had light stubble, suggesting she shaved them regularly in normal circumstances, and her knees were slightly calloused and rough, contrasting the rest of her legs.
I knocked myself back into the small bakery. I checked my cell phone, and was relieved to find that enough time had passed for me to head to work. As I carried the left-over croissant to the trash, I felt a little tainted. She was younger than me, four or five years at least, I calculated as I walked along the sidewalk. I felt perverted with the visualizations that I so easily conjured, but I also felt voice inside myself telling me it was natural.
I pushed it away from my mind as I neared the café, and prepared for an eight hour shift of serving coffee. It was Saturday, fortunately, and the heavy flow of customers would keep my mind occupied. When I got inside, I poured myself a cup of the House Special. I winced as I took a sip; I could never tolerate the taste of coffee. I dropped the half-finished drink in the trash, and prepared myself for what I hoped to be a quick day at the grind.
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