Henry likes his bagels lightly toasted and a little bit stale

Social Security

Henry likes his whole wheat bagel lightly toasted and a little bit stale. Just enough to help him imagine the taste of more ... of butter or cream cheese, of thinly sliced salmon and thickly sliced tomato, of crunchy peanut butter dotted with succulent blueberries. Stale bagels are a dollar, and that’s all Henry can afford if he’s going to have coffee, too, here at the Blue Coyote Café, where the pretty girls, one pretty girl in particular, stop for their chocolate monkeys and snickers lattes on the way to the train station across the street to catch the 8:04 into the city, twenty-three minutes to Union Station, six blocks to Insurance Towers, 37 floors up the elevator to the offices, the cubicle, the ergonometric swivel chair which Henry wishes he were when one pretty girl in particular, Pamela, sits herself down to begin her work day, right on his erection. Henry sighs and takes a small bite of his bagel and a small sip of his now tepid decaf coffee.

It’s rainy today. In a hurry, Pamela, dressed all in white, still manages to balance her furled umbrella, her shoulder bag, and her steaming drink, the lid of which is not firmly affixed, with perfect grace. Oh, dear. Her change spills to the floor. One coin, a shiny dime, rolls right to Henry’s feet, where it clatters dully to a stop. Henry bends to pluck it up just as Pamela bends before him, her breasts beneath her white, scoop-necked blouse bare as Eve’s apples, nipples like baby strawberries. Henry’s fingers reach the coin first.

“Thanks, love,” Pamela says, her fingers touching his. In the stoop and jostle, chocolate monkey sloshes, wetting the crease above Henry’s cock. Pamela notices. Her eyes go wide. “Oh, dear,” she says. “Got to run, otherwise ... you know.”

Henry knows!