Hairy knees

Down, went his eyes. Landed on my hairy knees, and lingered. Allowed his brain time to register what he was seeing. Disbelief not yet faded from his pale, whiskered, slightly pink open-pored face, he quickly ran his eyes back up to mine. Confusion reigned. The face and hair, made up and well groomed, didn’t match those knees, neglected by razor and hot-wax wielding beautician alike.

Of all the empty seats on the metro (this was only the second stop from the start of the line), he’d sat directly opposite me. Not even in the seat opposite and one over, on the aisle, which would’ve provided a buffer.

He reminded me of a character in a film I saw once that I can’t recall. An off-duty Santa, maybe? The character was kindly. I felt no discomfort. Nor did I give a fuck about my untidy knees. This is me, Friend. Look all you like. Vous ne pouvez pas me toucher.

Several stops later, I noticed his hands. His right index finger had a deep yellow stain. It crawled a little up his fingernail, too.

We all have hairy knees.