While I was swimming onto the 6 train today, I spotted a hottie getting sucked into the same car as me. Quick decision: Do I cram myself further into the car, so that I might find out if his breath is as sweet as his face? Or do I just accept that in sixteen minutes, he will have just been another 'wow, he was hot' that I'll think of two or three times more that day, and then never again? I opted to gaze from a distance. I could really observe him better that way anyway, since I could maintain a steady stare, hidden behind the rest of the sharks and guppies. He politely apologized when the sleeve of his brown suede jacket brushed up against a woman's purse, causing her to throw him a distrustful look. When the train jolted, and he stuck his nose into a Hesse book, something lurched into my throat. Maybe it was my heart. I could see that the words that I had read twice over were affecting him in a similar way as they did me. I thought of a million and one conversation openers, and subtly slid my way through the row of straphangers that stood between me and my potential destiny.

When the conductor announced the Union Square stop and sexy boy stuck the book into his back pocket, part of me wanted to follow him off the train and engage him (or get engaged to him). I pined for a moment as the tide of the city swept me away from the love of my day, and then flipped to the horoscope page.

I changed into my uniform and started to do my mindless sidework, thankful that I could reserve some of my mental energy to plan out my week, making sure that I left at least one evening free in case the cute guy I met at that party last week should ask for my company. My friend, Brian, was a strong advocate of playing the game for a while. Not hanging out with someone right away and corresponding for a while via phone or e-mail, to make sure that you liked them first. For me, I'd rather save my limited correspondence time (or any of my precious time, for that matter) for all the amazing people I already know. Also, meeting someone face to face saves a lot of apologies. Admitting that there's no spark is a hell of a lot easier when less time and energy has been invested. So as I married two ketchup bottles, I mentally set Thursday night aside.

I am not surprised that many successful writers, actors and musicians are graduates of the University of Please-at-Least-Double-the-Tax. Waiting tables has really given me the benefit of being able to listen to conversations to which I am completely unattached, and usually, completely unnoticed. At times, I wonder how such different personalities came to be breaking bread at the same table. And the ordering process lends itself to really tapping into the very essence of human nature; from how attentive they are when I'm reading the specials to the way they negotiate their orders to their need to sound their meal plans off of their company. I have definitely made some correct speculations about a customer's mealtime etiquette just from the way they first sat down at the table. The fruits that these close observations bear are insights into how I want my own interactions to be. I would guess that the way someone approaches a meal and the way they approach a relationship are not so different. And I can tell you right now, if my date intentionally leaves less than fifteen percent, I want no part of him.

A hand placed on my waist nearly causes me to spill a tray full of wobbly martini glasses, and the stench of cigar and whiskey follows me through the oblivious bar crowd. Damn it, can't you see I'm gonna fucking spill this if you dont step out of my way? After delivering the third round of Kettle Ones (extra dry, with olives) to the wedding ring-clad suits ogling a group of girls celebrating a twenty-first birthday, I stepped into the details of another server's date from the previous night. It was the big third date, which ended with Lisa rushing to work from his apartment this morning. She then bounced a dilemma off of me, something about him being a nine-to-fiver and their inability to find mutual free time. A woman wearing way too many different shades of pink waved a credit card, so I bestowed on Lisa a mere 'That sucks,' and went to collect my most likely twelve percent. But the dilemma stuck with me as I waited for the card to be approved. Can career minded twentysomethings in New York City actually find the time to put in to developing meaningful romantic relationships? And if the time can be found, is there sufficient energy to spare? Is the reason that more people who intend to start families are unmarried at thirty simply because more people are actually taking the time to realize their own dreams first? Or is it because more and more people are seeing that it is virtually possible to make enough money today to retire while you're still young enough to start a family? These questions haunted me as I kicked into auto-pilot, only exerting mental energy when it was time to calculate my earnings for the night.

I chose not to join the others at the bar, since I had all these not so new ideas to ponder. I wished Lisa good luck with the phone call after first sex game and headed to Grand Central. As I read one of the ever-present construction notices that added at least a half hour to my commute, I once again acknowledged how little control we sometimes have over our time. Suddenly, the familiar blue cover of Siddhartha and brown suede jacket caught my eye, and I praised both the MTA and whatever cosmic power wrote this chapter in my fate. I sucked in my gut, removed my headphones and rehearsed in my head for a moment. Hey, do you know whats up with the trains? Or maybe: Hey, that book kicks ass. What others have you read by him?

Jen Sotham is a writer and New York native. Though her career focus is screenwriting, her personal essays about being a twentysomething in New York City are beginning to find their homes in several publications. Her essay, 'Somebody,' was included in a book collection entitled 'A Cup of Comfort for Friends.'