coffee and bleach stained teeth

Good morning.
Every day I ride the train. When not busy watching people per the suspiciously uber reflective windows, I read. At times I have read a translated novel by an Egyptian author, many a newspaper (mostly the unfunny comic section and sports), a travel book to Iceland, a Canon camera owners guide and occasionally a cost estimate. The slowly vibrating molecules in the outside air and steel benches are prevented from licking the sections of skin that would normally cause daydreams of fantastical sexual thoughts. In the morning, wearing freshly tailored and pressed clothes and a serious scowl, I imagine what people are thinking; the soldier sees his two-year-old girl surrounded by bunnies on the back of his eyelids; the extravagantly dressed elderly woman wishes her son was on the front lines of a holy war; the thirteen year old with a moustache and a hat with a communist star deliberates chess strategies in a particular scenario he lost the last match on; the beautiful 22 year-old in business attire and a smidge of smeared lipstick subconsiously compares her current lover to her father; everyone is observed. On the Metro in Washington I am an undercover agent: a liberal, a conservative, a boy toy, a marine corp soldier, a fun and drunken friend, an arrogant jerk, a college student, a ghost and a millionaire. Smoke and mirrors aside, this city and the women in it are on me like mascara on San Diego and I feel like a million yen; what that equates to I don't know. At night I live, laugh and love and after eventually slipping into a deep sleep, jump out of bed at 0545. It is time to earn the professional part of the attractive-young-professional label I sleepily stamp on my body-obsessed and correspondingly vain human designer tag attached to the washing instructions behind my left ear.