The Law, In Its Majesty

Adair thought for a moment.

She faced many conundrums, a riddle or two, a praxis or two, a paradox or three.

She was sitting on one of the many benches provided for the comfort and relaxation of those “passing through” Grand Central Station. Actually, they weren’t very comfortable. They got you off your feet for a while, a time being,that pedestrian rush hour traffic, and you wouldn’t think of tarrying, or loitering, on one of these benches, if you had any other options.

Adair, hair tousled as no hair can be tousled without that “je ne sais quois” of corona cordon bleu, whiff of stiff, night of stillness, breathe of life, go real fast til you go real slow, fashion, haight ashbury, haute couture, had so many options.

She didn’t want to exhaust them.

To tousle is not to exhaust.

Tousling is very sexy. At the end of a good fuck, the various body hairs and fluids have been tousled. Probably there has been a snooze, and a shower, and a scented — perfumed?– SHAMPOO. A SHAMPOO, not a pooh, but also–

Not a sham.