Sunday, June 17, 2007
I keep my visions to myself...
It is 7:00 PM and a young man steps onto the Queens bound N train. He is wearing a white t-shirt and denim shorts. His tight curly hair is pulled up in a headband revealing intricate patterns shaved in beneath. He is the color of the lightest one on "Girlfriends". Eyelashes a mile long, eyes so big on his baby face they look like black saucers with no whites, big pink lips, androgynous, immaculate, can't be older than 20 years but looks like he has lived about 100,000.
He is maybe the most beautiful thing I have ever seen, and I am not one to exaggerate.
He sits next to another man, who is wearing a pink polo shirt and blue duckhead pants. He looks like he is either going golfing or to work at a call center. His name is probably like "Chuck" or "Billy". Something is off -- his shoes. They are black sandle things made of rubber with a lot of straps and exposed feet. They are supposed to be comfortable in spite of hideous, but they are probably just hideous. He looks a little bit crazy, as he leans forward to me across the aisle and says, "Can I have a cigarette?"
We are underground, on a train, and I must look like a smoker. What in the world? I lie. "I don't smoke." He goes back to his NY Daily News.
The one beside him, the pretty one, is listening to his iPod. He has carefully studied the quick interaction of me and duckhead-pants. A few stops pass and we approach the last stop before the train will come above ground in Queens. He removes one headphone from one ear and says to me, "What have you done all day?"
I look up from my book again, and in one second measure this question's meaning and intentions before I answer. "I ate lunch, worked a little bit, and visited a friend who is in town."
He stands up as the train screeches to a halt and walks to the door beside me. "You look like you've just been dreaming."
"Indeed." The doors open and close after he passes through and me and crazy duckhead pants continue on to Queens.