MTA Infactuation

I walk down the platform pretending to read the paper, but I am looking for my soulmate. I thought I found her, but she's a he. And then you brush up against me. I look up, thinking it is a Hispanic guy. Not because Hispanic guys have the propensity to push me. But because it was the 7 train.

I see you. You are no Paris Hilton or Jessica Simpson. But thank God for that. Are you shorter than me? Yes...one point for you. Or is it one point for me? What do you wear? Not too provocative, but not too "lou tou" - Chinese for old-fashioned/tacky/ish. You have a sweet regular face. Some people always frown for their regular face and others have a freakish smile. But you look normal. Not boring as it is mysterious. In a normal way.

I sit down. You sit next to me. Why? Are you thinking the same things that I am thinking? How do I keep looking at you without looking like I am looking at you? An attractive lady sits across from me, but I am not attracted. I want you to know that I find you more beautiful than the Revlon model could ever be. But I don't even know your name, let alone know if you can speak English.

I want you to say something interesting, so I could comment. I want you to say something about my shirt, my bag, my CNN ID, my hair, my bad breath. It doesn't matter. I want to strike up this conversation before we reach Junction Boulevard. I want to ask you out and tell you I have no money to take you out. So instead, we just ride the train back and forth through the night, talking. We would be catching up on the 21 years of separation. I want to take you home to my parents. I want to eat your food. I want to rub your shoulders. I see that we have arrived at Flushing, the last stop.

And you leave.

I snap out of it and continue pretending to read the paper.