A Bold Commute

I did something patently absurd this morning.  Incredibly romantic.  Before I tell you, let me assure you that I am working on an explanation for my whereabouts the last 6 months.  It is a Valentine of sorts to the people I hold most dear in New York.  Now, on with the besotted foolery.

I noticed her red canvas shoes first, as I boarded the G train going the wrong way.  Most of us have to go the wrong way until May, while the MTA does construction.  To get to Manhattan from my stop, you must first go deeper into Brooklyn.  I had planned to rid myself of my New York Times to some deserving stranger.  She became the obvious choice.  She was reading Revolutionary Road.  I sat down next to her, and made the offer.

No, thank you.

I can’t give it away!

If you leave it on the seat, I’m sure someone will take it.

Good idea.

That’s it.  This was the sum total of our conversation, yet I began to feel a little dizzy.  With her slender frame and hipster librarian attire, she looked remarkably like my Sylvia, the person I was with for almost two years, tied for my longest relationship, and certainly my best.  Her voice even sounded vaguely like hers, calm and a bit dreamy like a poet sitting in the middle of an Illinois wheat field–seemingly in the middle of nowhere, especially to my urban sensibilities, yet fantastically somewhere very specific, some exotic locale to which I was not yet privy.  Yet.

Naturally, I couldn’t speak further.  We got off to make the transfer, and I slowed my pace to see where she stopped.  I leaned casually against a column, trying to channel James Dean, but looking more like Bart Simpson with my baseball cap and backpack.  Yesterday, I had worn a skirt.  Why couldn’t she have seen me yesterday?  Maybe she likes Barts.

I did not walk to the end of the platform, per my usual practice, to find the optimum time-saving spot for my walk to campus.  I hovered near her, feeling rather creepy about it the whole time.  We boarded the F train to Manhattan, on opposite sides of the same car.  Will she get off at my stop?  I wondered.  If she does, it is a sign that I should talk to her more.  By 7th Ave. I decided to write on the back of my business card (business being a loose term, as I am a full-time student).  I like having cards, one of the few trappings of corporate life I miss, so I kept the practice.  I digress.  Here’s what I wrote:

I’ve never given my card to a stranger before, but you have a beautiful speaking voice.  Drink sometime?

I finished the card by Carroll Street, and began to contemplate my journey to the other side of the car.  I didn’t want to bring my bag, but leaving it with strangers seemed foolish, even to this fool.  Then, a woman got on with coffee spilling out of her cup.  She tried to manage it, as I looked down, making sure it wasn’t spilling on my pant leg as it hit the train floor.  I stole a glance at red shoe girl.  She was still reading.  Would she get off at Jay Street?  If so, I was running out of time.  My heart began to box like Pacquiao.  Surely she would be heading to the city.

The woman next to me continued to struggle with her coffee to the point where I snapped out of my amorous punching.

Would you like a napkin?  I think I have one.

Oh, thank you!  That would be great.

With my new caffeinated friend secured, I decided I could safely leave my bag for a minute.  Clearly, napkin buddies would not steal.  I asked her to watch it, and marched up the train, praying I wouldn’t smash into a pole, or worse, onto her.  When I arrived at her seat she had her eyes closed!  Hmmm, this is problematic, I thought.  So I gently nudged her red shoe with my hiking boot and said, “Pardon me.”  She opened her heavy lids revealing deep brown eyes, framed by short, stylishly shaggy hair.  “Oh dear God, what am I doing?”  (said the cartoon thought bubble over my head)

“I want to give you my card.” (slight pause)

“Uh, okay.” (in sleepy disbelief)

“And since I know this is incredibly awkward, I’m going to go back there now.”

With that, I turned and left.  I don’t know at which stop she exited.  I could not look back.  I also could not stop smiling.