1/30/17
Today I saw a stranger on the train.
Chiseled, caramel, and content.
He was wearing black shoes and black pants and a plaid shirt and every time the train swayed he briefly closed his eyes; he had long eyelashes. He caught me staring and gave a slight smile, a whisper of acknowledgment, too minuscule and gone too fast. He was one of mine. He looked about twenty two - and maybe I’ve read one too many books that turn into ambiguous character studies, going for pages on end, about this aspect or that occasion - but he looked like a business major who had aimed for art (or even literature) instead. Maybe his parents would be prouder. Maybe he didn't want to end up like the other artists in a rickety old loft and pay too much for heat and water. Maybe he thought money would fare him far better than stacks of books and warm tea at night.
I never heard his voice. Not once. Not when he gestured to the tight lipped woman and made space for her and not when a boy bumped into him. He held an empty coffee cup and his knuckles were icy white and red. I watched his hands thaw out and his grip eventually loosened. It was around two o’clock and the sun was bright-a stark contrast to the bleak environment that had built up that weekend. Now and then the sunlight would gently pass and cover his face. It was only then that I realized his eyes were a piercing dark brown; melted chocolate. He looked so sure of everything.
He was nonchalant but then again that’s how every New Yorker acts - indifferent yet connected. I wanted to know if he was in love. Love in the city was cheap, easy to find. Much harder to keep. He looked like he fell fast. Too fast and gave away everything much too quickly. He looked like he was in too deep when the other - a girl? a guy? - disentangled themselves. I wanted to know who picked up the pieces when they left.
I wanted to know.
The stranger followed me from Main St. to 74th St. and made me want to write. To note. To picture each individual as just that: a story. I got off the train before he did and now it’s 8 o’clock and I’m still wondering why he furrowed his brows at his phone. I’m still wondering what gave him the strength to shut it off, turn his music louder - his fingers were slender - and sigh.
I wonder if I’ll ever see him again.
I’ve scribbled about him all over (I’m afraid to turn the page and forget) and I know now, at sixteen, what it’s really like to be a teenager. It’s not all hormones, it’s all falling. It’s falling in love with a complete stranger (could’ve-would’ve-should’ve). It’s wondering for hours at end about what he was like. It’s giving that stranger a whole other life.
Maybe he was hiding. Maybe he was running. Maybe he had lost someone. Maybe his heart was broken. Maybe he wanted to be healed.
I’ll never know.
He was all scribbles. He was crossing out, never erasing. A lot like what I’ve done trying to put my thoughts into cohesive sentences for anyone who will listen.
God will forgive me for this one. He looked like Home.
