Libel

It is the kind of clear day particular to autumn and winter that seems to have been designed for a higher plane. Lines converge beneath exquisite blue. People are creatures of light. The air smells scrubbed, clean. It is chilly but there is very little wind.

At the bus stop, her hair shimmers and dances, though she seems to doubt the shimmer and dance. This moment I watch. This moment is magical, part of her, part of us.

"Hello," I say.

"Hello," she says.

"Nice day."

She turns away. I should have worn a hat with a brim. Old-timey is less creepy.

With a squeal and a gasp, the bus pulls up.

I adjust my toupee and my erection. As she boards, her ass floats above me, blue with a sheen of gold. I lean forward, saliva filling my mouth, teeth bared, y-y-y-esss.

"Marv," a voice behind me says. "Marv Albert?"

As I turn, a man in a red satin Bulls jacket hugs me.

He whispers, "I loved your call in game 1 of the '92 Finals." His whisper is hot in my right ear. "Jordan for three!"

The bus doors close. His tongue probes my ear. Such is the price of celebrity.