A part of me wanted it because there was a different taste in this station. It lies somewhere between the soapy perfume of the tall buildings and the rancid mixture of cologne and sweat of the hidden academe. Still the capitalist bourgeoisie. Not hidden, but more relaxed.
But, it rejected me. It did the dreaded “Well, we can’t be lovers but we can still be friends.” Not quite rejected, not quite good enough.
And here I was thinking I taste the same.