He had no idea. I saw him from the platform as the 1 train pulled into Columbus Circle. I entered through the doors nearest to him even though they weren’t the ones nearest to me just so I could take a better look at him. He was very handsome. I tend to do this a lot. It’s a dirty habit. I scope out attractive people on the subway. What else is one supposed to do for forty-five minutes? Read? Oh, please.
He had no idea. It had just struck midnight, so there weren’t very many people on the train. Well, there were still enough people that some were standing up. There were a few of the mustard/tangerine seats from which to choose including one all the way at the edge of the bench, which was prime real estate on the subway, but I decided against it. Instead, I sat across from him. It gave me more to look at. There was a seat next to him, too, but that wouldn’t have been very conducive in my efforts of taking a good look at him.
He had no idea. We had the same shoes. Well, they may not have been the same, but they were very similar white canvas sneakers. Like Keds. Except mine weren’t Keds. Mine were cheap Keds knock-offs that I bought for seven dollars at Target. His shoes probably weren’t seven dollars and from Target. I didn’t care enough to investigate further. I was just happy that we were wearing similar shoes. Well, I actually wasn’t wearing them at the time. I was actually wearing my new Birkenstocks. A lot of people raved to me about them, so I bought myself a pair. They hurt like a bitch when you first wear them, but they were getting better. My pair of white sneakers were in my bag. I wear those at work. They don’t allow you to wear Birkenstocks where I work. His sneakers, like mine, were really worn out. I only like them when they are brand-spankin’ new and sparkly white or when they’re downright disgusting. You could hardly tell that his were white as one point, but that’s what gives them character. They can show where a person has been. I always wanted to display an art show like that. I wanted to give a whole bunch of people the same white canvas sneakers, and a year later, I wanted them to give them back to put them on display with the wearer’s portrait and biography, and people can see what they’ve done and where they’ve been for the past year by looking at their shoes. I have a lot of ideas for art shows. I think I’m an artist sometimes.
He had no idea. He was biting his nails. It’s kinda like a subconscious thing. I wonder if he saw me biting mine. I’ve been biting my nails ever since I can remember, and the farthest back that I could remember is when I was five. Maybe I was biting them even earlier than that. All I know is that I’ve been biting my nails constantly ever since. Well, except for that one month during my sophomore year of high school when I started chewing a lot of gum to get me from biting my nails. Except I started biting my nails while chewing gum. It didn’t really work. I wondered if he had as much difficultly trying to break the habit as much as I’ve had.
He had no idea. I was writing about him. I always wrote in my sketchbook on the train. It’s where a whole bunch of stuff is stowed away. Especially stories like this. There were reminders, mementos, fashion drawings, doodles, and everything under the sun in that sketchbook. I bring it with me everywhere. I always think about whether or not the people I wrote on the train realize that I’m writing about them. They often see me looking at them; we often exchange glances for a split-second until we awkwardly turn away from each other. But I wonder if they’re thinking that I’m writing about them. I usually am. I wonder what their reaction would be. I wonder if they’d like to read about themselves. People always love to hear about themselves.
He had no idea. I existed. I really don’t know if he noticed me at all. That’s what it’s like on the subway. I’ll probably never see him again. I probably won’t recognize him if I did. And I’m sure he wouldn’t recognize me, either. I guess that’s just the way it is.
I have no idea.
(Painting by Gerard Boesma)
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