I am sitting on a southbound express train, wedged between two individuals that can’t seem to take a hint from the uniform plastic seating, from which their body’s excess overflows onto my lap, that perhaps it may be time to take up exercise. OK fine, that triviality has nothing to do with the topic of this post, but I just had to get it off my chest (or off my lap in this particular case). The fact that I have just been made a junior size patty in a super-size bun does not bother me all that much, since I have come to accept it as a natural part of my morning commute. Instead I am staring directly at the brunette sitting across from me; three seats to the right. I can do this with utmost confidence, unflinching, because of the $15 pair of imitation designer shades which I bought from a Chinese man near Fulton market. Again, neither here nor there, though it does let me focus on my inner thought process without worrying about when she’ll decide to look up in my direction. To make the experience even more authentic, I am employing the old misdirection trick. Shifting my head about 20 degrees to the left of her, then adjusting my eyes back to the right (oh don’t even try to pretend this is new to you). Five minutes into the ride I realize that my technique has inadvertently put my “apparent” gaze directly at yet another plastic seat offender, but I can’t say that I care. If anything, she will mistake it for flattery and it will make her day. I am a good person.
Back to the brunette, who sits oblivious to our entire setting, ears plugged by a pair of isolating headphones (probably Sony), listening to what I can only imagine being dance music, judging by the subtle bob of her head. Did I mention she’s cute? No? Well she is. Very cute. I try to think of an opening line… context… need context. Her bag looks nice; real, no doubt. Something I would have probably chastised her for owning had she already been my girlfriend, but this is all new and exciting so I let it slide. Instead I imagine how we would be spending our “night in”, maybe 2 or 3 months into the relationship, once familiarity has already been established. Would she be wearing boy shorts or jammies? Nothing about her current appearance gives me anything to base that question on. Suddenly reality begins to set in. Logic is quickly fighting the reigns from my little romantic heart. Cold calculating logic.
Why does she have her headphones (actually starting to look like Bose on closer inspection) in?? She could be taking this precious time to read! But audio books do exist… and are gaining popularity among us busy commuters. Get real. Unless she is agreeing with every word the author has said thus far, it’s more likely that it’s just the latest Rihanna album. The designer handbag catches my attention again, this time the offense is not so easily dismissed. Now I am thinking that I’ve probably seen her at a bar somewhere, amidst a group of girls that look just like she does, aligned in almost Spartan formation to help her fend of people like me with their spears of contempt. And what kind of “person” am I anyway? Just someone who has taken in interest in exchanging a few words in hopes of possibly seeing a real human side to her? I know, total creep right?
Thank god she can’t see my eyes. I am certain that by now my enamored curious gaze has twisted into a look of sheer contempt. I have nothing against the poor thing, so I look away. Down. I am thinking of all the girls I know. About what a miserable percentage the bunch of them that are literate, actually comprise. About the trite exchanges of words that happen between us on a daily basis. We smile at one another as we walk away. I smile because to onlookers it seems like I am popular among the opposite sex, they smile because… I don’t actually know why they smile; maybe there is an upcoming sale at “Bloomies”. Yes, that is how it usually ends.
At the bottom of it all lies the fact that though I am taken with her cuteness, it’s really not at all what I am interested in. Sure it’s a factor. A very necessary factor. But it is nothing without her ability to appreciate a joke without getting “self conscious”. To banter about why Dan Brown’s latest book will sweep the nation despite him being a second-rate writer. And of course about the book itself when it does inevitably come out because despite our judgments of the man, we are both secretly eager to read it. Her discretion in NOT bantering about why her boss annoys her, and telling me only ONCE that her pinkie hurts (because I do listen). Did I mention that I am a good person? The ability to appreciate a good wine. Being content with walking around aimlessly just so long as my hand is holding hers. Being, doing, not doing….
I know there will be those among you that read this and automatically scoff at everything I’ve written here. Saying something along the lines of “look at him trying to mask a fear of rejection behind a facade of pseudo-intellectual bullshit”. And you would be right. Though it’s not the fear of rejection that gets me, its the fear of rejection by a person that (as I’ve statistically calculated above) is probably not worth my time to begin with. Sure this defeatist attitude will get me nowhere, but I don’t mind since all I see it as is a screening mechanism that keeps me clear of dull, uninspiring females. I would like to end this post by saying “I am happy”.
