"Tu connais jacuzzi, j-a-c-u-z-z-i? ...quand tu es enervé....," a young black woman of seemingly lissome stature, so cute that her doing herself up right before on the station platform did matter now to me, her dreadlocks worn in a smart bun as a crown on the crest of her head, was in the middle of a voice call with someone, seemingly possessive or presenting as so, or hard up, on the other end. But for me, the loner aboard RER A to Paris from a faubourg, jacuzzi that she presented as something so heavenly, so coveted after like she could remain in a one for her life time, as from the coyness even here reflected in the twinkling of her big, bit protruded eyes, presented as a timely mnemonic that let me indulge myself in dissecting everything related with it, the set to the notion of enjoying in it to the real time activity to sensations or any, to see if she could really endure it thus...
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