Mack had a penchant for writing dirty haikus.
Spreading glistening suckle
He enjoyed writing them in public places most of all, counting out the syllables on his badly bitten fingers until it was a perfect 5-7-5. It made him warmly smug to be counting out something so intimate and anatomical among oblivious fellow passengers. If he was lucky enough to get a seat, occasionally he would catch the person to his left or right reading over his shoulder, their eyes bulging. Perhaps they’d become invested and start counting out the syllables too, as if checking an answer to a crossword. “14 Across: The folds of skin bordering the vulva.” La-bi-a. That was a good word for a haiku, plus he liked the way his mouth remained open after he finished saying the last syllable quietly to himself. It hardly mattered that Mack had never slept with anyone before. “Write what you know” was an old adage he’d heard somewhere, but those haikus would have been pretty dismal.
Bottles of wine growing stale
Nobody wanted to read those, not even the nosiest of subway companions.