She calls him, not with words but with her eyes, between sighs…across the train. Her energy flows down like warm rain, in distinct and similar waves. Let me tell you she’s adorned with all that heaven could bestow to make her amiable to the five senses; and on some level, maybe the 7th. A slice of heaven. She wears boots that come up to her knees, natural leather, green panty hose and a skirt that stops on the right part of her thighs. Her coat drapes across her lap and there’s a green turtle neck beneath a thin denim vest. He’s most intrigued by the orange scarf hiding her neck.
He looks at her, but not just as a passing stranger with whom there’d be a pleasant exchange carried across a wagon of this 1970’s steel horse.
He can’t help but think that there was more than causality at play here. He takes the opportunity; there’s an open seat. He sits down and his imagination takes him to places must softer, and nicer, and light than this subterranean gerbil mover. The routine is suspended.
She’s never felt energy so intense.
She feels as if standing on the edge of a volcano. She feels him subduing, toning it down if you will. So she calls out to him again, and he answers her call. He’s willing to say hello, and only hello. And yet she feels the lava burbling beneath the surface. She says take me; take me right here on this train with all of these people watching. Take all that I have for that is all that I have to give but together we can spark up the universe.
He longs to feel something more than the tedium and the hum-fucking drum. He wants to feel the thrust of the twinjets for mere moments defying gravity, taking him to the beaches of his country; where the water’s always warm and you can see your feet.
At this moment though, she’s sweeter than dulce de leche; hotter than the high noon sun.
Most people don’t notice and most people don’t care to. But they claw at each other and bite each other until it became obvious to her that there’s no making him submit. No quit in him.
She lets her self be taken even though she said she’d surrendered moments before because only now does she learn he’s worthy. Seconds turn to centuries and minutes to millennia. There’s a gust of wind that runs through the cabin.
Everyone that slept is awake.
As they come up on Bowling Green, he finally speaks. The words are meaningless and they feel more like the chitchat that two people have as they smoke that one cigarette; the one that follows after making casualties of sheets and pillows.
“Hi.” She responded, meekly and cynically.
“So where are you getting off?”
“Soon…Maybe I already did.”
“Maybe I missed my stop.”
“Listen, I’m usually kind of shy. But fuck it, what’s up? I want to take you out, when are you free. I mean, really free.”There’s a pause; after some thought, she chuckles. She removes her jacket only to reveal a belly that’s about 3 months from bursting.
He goes into his notebook and makes a fan out of a page he rips out. He pages are sown in; there are ripples in the fan. He hands her the fan.
They approach Union Square, and he grabs his book bag. Out of the corner of his eye he notices her undoing the fan. His heart breaks as he sees that she sees there’s no phone number written on it, no name or trace. Only blue lines, imaginary confines. His right foot hesitates on hitting the platform, and even though he forgets her with the last swig of that first cup of coffee…
