Che Guevara

The humidity stifles, we gasp, the east-bound underground, choking.

Toddlers groan while mothers pacify, bending down to offer water and comfort or soothers while lecherous old men in Savile Row suits peer down summer blouses for planned peeks at the peaks of perfection, perspiration on brown nipples, the masses abounding.

We sit on fake velvet with wet backs and sticky armpits, unavoidable discharges of sweet and salty electrolytes. And that girl, high cheekbones, warm with a slight sheen, scanning the morning paper, the muscles in her cheeks flexing as she grinds on a mouthful of egg and cress on rye.

She lowers the paper to turn the page, exposing a loosely clad chest and a birthmark, an uncanny resemblance of the great Cuban revolutionary, Che Guevara in pose, a line of perspiration running down her cleavage across his face and cigar.

A moment.