Such a vision of loveliness on such a gray and dreary day.
She got on the Metro with a small group of others at the GMU stop and sat near the door. From behind the plexiglass divider, across the clear expanse of carpet, I could see her clearly.
She was just slightly shorter than me in her subtle, dark flats. A smile blue dress–the color of a darkening summer sky–with small white buttons down the front was topped with a darker (though no more flashy) long sleeved coat.
Her sharp brown eyes flashed intently beneath her straight, not too thick eyebrows (which had me thinking, vaguely. of Brooke Shields). Her hair dipped below her shoulders and was thick. Not overdone but nicely rich adn flowing–hiding her ears and framing her well-cut (though not quite sharp) jawline.
The smoother feminine muscles of her legs told tales of much walking–perhaps more intense exercise, jogging, some light biking. They remained crossed at the knee for the entire ride, her left foot keeping time with the rattle and bounce of the train on the tracks.
She sat there, across from me, reading. Not a book or a newspaper but class notes of some sort. The well-spaced handwriting filling the fonts and backs of a small stack of loose papers, interspersed here and there with red notes and some highlights.
Intently, she read those words. Absently twirling an errant strand of hair. Gently running her hand along her chin and neck. curling her tapered and unadorned fingers beneath her chin and frowning slightly at a particular page. Then, a smile and a silent laugh at another.
She wore no jewelry except for a thin, white coral beaded bracelet an a subtly patterned dark metallic women’s watch. Both were on her right wrist. no necklaces or rings. Perhaps, beneath that shine of hair, there were earrings, but I doubt it.
Every now and then her eyes would dart up in my direction. Could she tell, even through my dark glasses and tilted away from her head that I was watching her intermittently? Or was she only seein gthe reflections in the glass that separated us? Or was she looking nowhere as Metro riders often do, lost in her own thoughts about what she was reading?
She was not without distinctive favor in her fashion. While her clothing was solid in color and moderately conservative in cut, the strap on the messenger bag she carried boasted a striking 70’s style swirling striped print. And tied on that bag, sneaking out from beneath her arm was a cream and brown scarf, caying out “Look! I can be Bohemian if given the chance!”
And so I rode for the better part of an hour, daring glimpses at the vision across the divide. Careful not to stare too intently, lest i feel like more of a letch than I probably am. Hoping, of so slightly, that those glances and smiles were truly directed at me. Wishing a bit that what she was seeing through the glass was something other than what I see when I look in the mirror or at most pictures. (We are our own worst critics, are we not?)
The train rolled in to the Vienna station and, as she gathered her bag while making a cell call, that wild strap pulled on the edge of her dress, loosing that alwaysprecarious top button, dropping the neckline another two inches.
Daring? Obscene? Inappropriate? No. But, in this case, the epitome of sexy–of potential promise and chances of ecstasy. A glimpse (because that is all I would allow myself) of the clear inner curve of her breasts and the ver so slight appearance of the front connecting fabric of her bra. That little fabric–stark in its paleness against her healthy, tanned skin–lingerd in my mind as I averted my eyes (something that two of the other men around me, leering little boy smirks on their faces, did not do).
The things that we find sexy–that really turns us on–are often so subtle that we forget what they really are. The curve of the neck as it meets the shoulder. The gentle absent trailing of a finger across her chin. The fierce burst of connection that flashes in her eyes. That one hint of undergarment, visible for only a moment, yet always there…
She seemed friendly enough. At any point during the ride, I could have approached her and struck up a conversation.
But I didn’t.
The fantasy of her–a stuent, dedicated to learning, yet yearning to just run away and live, to be somone else, to experiece and explore–was perfect for me right then. Why would I want to shatter it with a reality that could have left us both trapped and uncomfortable on that train? Why spoil perfection on a humid and cloudy August-in-October day?
As I walked along the station platform, I made a decision. If, when we reached the upper level, she and I went in the same direction to catch our respective rides, would speak to her. Safe, away from the confines of the train. Easy escape routes available for us both. I know how I can come across. I know people sometimes like to be able to get away. I know sometimes I need to hide around a corner after opening my fool mouth.
My heart quickened as I watched her–now out of the corner of my eye–as she stepped off the escalator. She went left and my heart dropped as I turned right.
I doubt I will ever see her again and, if I do, I will probably not recognize her. Nor she me.
[The above was written–by hand in an actual paper journal–in the 40 or so minutes I spent waiting for my ride to show up at the Metro station, on my way to a friend’s wedding far, far away this past weekend. If nothing else, it was a good way to start a road trip.]
