Not That Special: June 2010

A Short Story
By Zane Hart

She sways lightly, eyes closed, back to the tracks. Her wrinkled layers, wool over cotton over cotton again, show small holes in subtle places; along seams and in armpit, places I only notice because I am staring. Though her clothes swallow her whole, she has the lithe, boyish frame of a dancer, and she moves with subtle grace as she drifts nearer to the acne ridden yellow platform edge. She’s too close, and she knows it, an eager adolescent defiance creasing her face. Her hand moves to her bag, hugging it closer to her stomach, a protective gesture that only makes her seem more vulnerable. Her eyes open as an express train roars and rumbles two tracks behind her. Her honey colored eyes are slightly bloodshot; they look as is they could see things I take for granted. She’s not sneering. So many people sneer on the subway. Maybe they just sneer at me. She looks kind, but intelligent enough to know better than to be kind.
She notices me staring, and I avert my gaze. I look at the poster ads for movies and energy drinks. It’s a game we all play: the quick (but not too quick) look away, as if you weren’t staring, as if you were fascinated by something else, and then, when you feel safe, you steal another glance. She’s still looking at me, waiting for me to return. Now we’re lingering; she’s sizing me up in a way that’s beyond me. I’m too embarrassed to look away, too embarrassed to really look back. She smiles, a possibly sincere smile.
I imagine approaching her, smiling and speaking softly, like calming a feral animal. She would be cagey but interested. We would chat and I’d lead her from pleasantries to loving the city; from fun neighborhood bars to the profound loneliness living here can mean; the way it surrounds you with nothing but itself. Before she knew it, she’d agree to go back to her place, to talk more. To connect. Intrusively relaxing music—she looks like a Sufjan Stevens kind of girl—would emanate from a $39.95 bookshelf CD/Cassette/AM/FM system bought at the Superstore USA in Springfield (or Cottage Grove or Yamhill or wherever the fuck normal people come from). We’d sit in her glorified closet of a studio and drink cheap cabernet. The wine would lead to a spliff of dry weed she’d produce from a colorful tin. I imagine her fingers gracefully working the paper bundle, bringing the neat little joint to her lips to lick.
We’d fuck like playground games; all teasing and competition, all dares and boasts. We’d roll and tickle, getting twisted up in her sheets, and fall raucously onto the hard floor, laughing like madmen. I’d sleep sated on her street-salvage-futon, one arm over my eyes to block out the street light, the other tangled in her hair. For a night she’d be mine, and I’d leave quietly before she woke up. I’d walk past the bagel place, consider buying her breakfast and returning gallantly. Oh no, I’d never leave like that, cream and sugar? I’d keep walking, feeling too guilty to even feed myself.
I’d go back to my life and she to hers. I wonder if she’d tell her friends, or pretend it never happened? I let my fantasy roll around in my head, tantalizing and profoundly sad. How long before the clinic visit? Got to get tested, both of us, each fretting the other’s habits. She’d wonder how frequently I casually fuck girls I meet in the subway. Where she lands on a long list. She’d feel a creeping sensation under her skin; an itch too deep to be real. She’d feel stupid. The Planned Parenthood waiting room would be—always is—full of distant eyed young women, teens carting out pocketfuls of condoms, and the most compassionate nurses on earth.
The train arrives. She’s sitting down, her bag in her lap. She’s directly across from me, looking at me again and I’m blushing. I study my shoes, but find myself looking more at hers. Simple flats: red, canvas, a bit tired looking. She must walk a lot. I guess we all do. I imagine she makes jewelry in her spare time; semi precious stones and copper wire twisted into loose fluid patterns. I see her hunched over a pile of tiny tools and silver plate chains and colored glass beads scattered on her studio floor. She’d bite her lip in concentration as she worked a pair of needle nose pliers in tight little circles. She’d sell the baubles online and to girlfriends; gift them to nieces and mom. And I’m there too, lounging on the bed. I never left, really. I’m there now, really. We’d laugh and joke about nothing. We’d tease and play like teenagers. At least, how I imagine teenagers playing. Why does love seem immature to me? Maybe the dependence on another person. She’d depend on me for praise and comfort; for assistance and support.
I would meet her friends; my arm around her waist, affectionately, not possessively. Holding, never clinging or asking too much or wanting things she’d never offer. Her female co-workers from the ad firm (or not-for-profit-organization or grassroots campaign office or wherever the fuck young professionals work) would wink at me and I’d buy them drinks. They’d compare me to her last boyfriend while I was at the bar, being polite about my shortcomings, encouraging her praise. I’d answer their questions, blush at their frequent innuendo, and not get a word in edgewise. She’d squeeze my hand under the table and offer reassuring smiles. We’d get home and she’d tell me how much they liked me. How funny I was. I’d fret about a tiny faux pas I’d made and she’d taunt my consternation with exaggerated agreement.
She’s getting up from her seat and I’m tensing, visibly. She’s checking the subway map a few feet away. Is she going somewhere new? How long has she been in the city? The small of her back is arched as she leans toward the brightly colored routes. I can see that same curve leaning over the bathroom sink as she applies makeup. She’d primp and curl her dark hair, dab tinctures and ointments on nape and navel. Rituals as ordinary to her as they are mysterious to me; female alchemy. She’d angle her body out toward me slightly, performing just a bit. I’d relish her subtle attention and she’d feel worshiped.
I imagine our lovemaking again, this time as tender and longing; fulfilling a need greater than the physical. Slow motion and sepia tones. Afterward, we’d cuddle. I imagine bagels and French press coffee on Sunday mornings. I imagine moving her out of her tiny studio into my place. I imagine merging our CD collections. I imagine holding hands as we walk down the Central Park walks, passing elderly couples who see themselves reflected in us. I imagine pledging our love eternally in whispered tones. I imagine what our kids would look like. I imagine moving to the suburbs to raise a family, but remaining edgy and youthful. I imagine never losing that spark we had when we first met on the six train that night all those years ago.
The train approaches 33rd St, and she’s standing to leave, moving to the doors, inches away from me. She smells like ballpoint-ink and hazelnuts. She smells like once-worn-laundry. She smells like comfort food and Bali Shag rolling tobacco. She looks like pragmatic optimism and sounds like whiskey and water. She’s warm and soft and inches from my fingertips. The doors open. She leaves. I feel fulfilled.

Not That Special

Friday, June 4, 2010

18 Minutes on the 6.

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