Curried Away

     You believe that, at their core, vegetarians are diabolical souls. And veganism, veganism should be illegal. She's yammering, on and on, about how she hasn't eaten meat in six years, how it might make her sick now--a textural thing, you know--and it mostly just makes you determinedly cheerless inside.
     You kick yourself for having been too unconcerned to secure your regular spot in the back of the bus, against the engine, where the pulsation and dictatorial drones of the diesel tune out all superfluous inhabitants.
      But the bus is gorged today, overfilled and squeezed. By not immediately securing your spot, you've lost your chance at a seat, and as the grimly-gazed driver maneuvers too quickly, people lean, dip, ebb, and stumble, yanking and clinging onto gray, faux leather hand straps. Toes crunch, ass odor abounds, and the fact that Homegirl's frizzy hair is grazing your shoulder is causing an excruciating, inner flip-out within you.
     Shakespeare claimed that "suspicion always haunts the guilty mind", and you wonder what's so interesting about your tits to the joker standing next to you. It's a mystery how a human being can make it through life without a person educating him, equipping him with the knowledge that incessant staring will not, ever, help him score or develop into a moral, acceptable person. You muster your most bloodcurdling, squarest eyes, and you reciprocate with havoc, hoping to evoke carnage.
     You calm yourself, crank Beyonce, your spirit queen, and try to dedicate yourself to your final effort at a clear mind. But your back stiffens when you realize that the guy that you're standing in front of either has the biggest wallet you've ever seen, ...or a very well-tended boner. You want to cry, and there's no way Americans smell as bad to foreigners as they do to Americans. You disavow the entire realm of Indian food and settle in, rooting all of your weight in your heels, locking all of your joints, and choosing to be victorious. You, all of a sudden, feel sorry for feet, with all of these people standing, and you clench your eyes shut with a zealous enthusiasm.
     Dreaming of desolation, you admit to yourself that people skills have never been your forte. So, maybe, you shouldn't be so stunned that people aren't particularly skilled with you, either. A red triangle, next to a blue one, next to a purple one, next to a green one. Around and around, layers forming bands, overlaying atop of one another, a swirling cul-de-sac of colors. And a marble slides out of the curl of his tongue. It drops, hits the floor, gets notched in a groove, and rolls toward his own orifice.

     You giggle, and now you know what your eyes look like from the inside.