The rhythm of the ride
It was a gallery opening like many others. A well-known Dutchman held a speech, the host cracked some inappropriate jokes that got a laugh from just a handful of the guests and the lukewarm champagne was of an expensive but tasteless brand.
He didn't stay long but on his way to the cloakroom he saw her. She stood out thanks to her guts. You need guts to come to a black-tie party dressed in blue shiny hotpants. The amazing thing was that she looked good in them.
Her conversation partner could apparently not amuse her or else she would not have noticed him. The half-smile she gave him made him decide to approach her.
'I prefer a name to go with my fantasies', he told her without even introducing himself. Completely ignoring the self-absorbed man in front of her she said she felt flattered and gave him her name.
She spoke. If the light of a half-moon in November had a sound, it would sound like that.
Her name fitted a lady of whom you suspect that she makes some extra cash by acting in so-called 'adult movies'. That's why he gave her another name in his fantasies.
At times he would forget it but every now and again the memory of her and her hotpants would float to the surface of his mind and he would smile. His travel companions would look at him quizzically but he would never answer. This was his personal joke.
Rather than answer he watched the landscape go by through the train window and silently he laughed harder at the thought of what she and he might do to the rhythm of the ride.
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