Sweet Subway Nothings

by Amanda S. Hanna

     Spanish, I thought, not Mexican or Latin American. Nicely dressed, but not too nice. White long-sleeved, button-down shirt. Crimson tie, grey/black work slacks. Surprisingly scruffy shoes. His hair was black, fresh from a recent cut. His face smooth with high cheek bones, cushioned by an olive complexion. I watched him stand there listening to his I-Pod, not noticing the bustling crowd around him. Wondered what was on his play list and if I’d like it. Men like him probably didn’t have to try to get women. His head nodded every once in a while in tune with the music only he could hear. I didn’t notice his aqua marine eyes until he turned around for a moment, not seeing me. Maybe his dad was Spanish and his mom, Irish. Perhaps his siblings had brown eyes, and he was the odd one that lucked out with blue. He didn’t seem like a middle child at first, but it’s possible I admit. I told myself not to stare.  

     We waited there under open umbrellas for the Shuttle to Grand Central to empty. The leaky roof lead to muddy puddles that got splashed onto my cleanly shaven calves as strangers stomped by. I squealed softly as the cool water turned warm on my already cold and exposed skin. He didn’t hear me. I was on my way to a first date with another man. I wondered if he was meeting someone too. For dinner or drinks. For a play or a social work function. He didn’t seem in a rush like me. Instead, the line for the train seemed like a relief from the stressful career day he just had. Full of meetings and conference calls. The mid section of his white shirt had creases in the sides. He probably had a desk job and spent most of his day sitting. Not like me who ran around at both my jobs all day. He probably got the I-Pod to fill time during his commute. He looked like a classic rock guy, possibly a former-frat boy. The kind of guy that would sing along to the likes of ‘Pour Some Sugar On Me’ and ‘Livin’ On A Prayer’. Maybe his commute is long, maybe he lives in Brooklyn. A guy like that could convince me to try an apple martini at a borough bar for sure.  

     Ours was the last car to board, and the seats were relatively empty. As I took a few steps forward I smelled his cologne. Not old man musk and not teenage-boy sweet. Thick but airy. Sharp. A light scent gone from my taste buds within seconds. I knew it was his. It smelled like something he’d wear, even though I didn’t know him. I inhaled deeply trying to find it again, but the air quickly filled with the fragrance of wet dog. The scent of some other MTA passenger no doubt. Just as quickly I blew the air out and observed as he surveyed the options, hesitant to sit again after a day in that position. I closed my umbrella and followed my guy onto the brightly lit train. Stood until he decided to sit; then made my move.

     It was a conscious play: I left an empty seat between us. Didn’t want to appear too eager or easy. His eyes remained straight ahead, his stare, on the ground. My eyes wondered to my left disobediently, in spite of the lecture in my head. I hoped he didn’t notice me so I could look a little longer. Didn’t care if I was five minutes late anymore. I wondered about his job instead, and where he was going home to. If he had a girlfriend. A man like that had to have one, if not several. Maybe a wife. I wanted to look for the wedding band but his body was tilted away. I’d have to noticeably shift to gain any information, so I stayed still, told myself it didn’t matter anyway. Instead, I rested the hook of my umbrella on the edge of the separating orange seat, careful to make sure nobody filled the space between us. Still pleading with myself not to look too long in his direction. Not to laugh at the ridiculous thoughts in my head. This man was still a stranger after all, not someone I could lean over and share a casual joke with. No matter how friendly we’d gotten in my mind.

     It was obvious that he was ambitious and dedicated. It was after seven and he was just leaving the office. He might be a ‘work hard, play hard’ type. Probably cocky when drinking beer and watching Sunday football with his guy friends, but a surprisingly sweet lover. A little tough when it counts, but also tender when it’s called upon. He’d show up in a clean suit to meet my parents, freshly shaved and all smiles. But not a guy I could control and then get bored with. He’d be a fighter that one, really passionate. Intense too. I could see it in his face. His cologne choice re-enforced it.

     And even though it was not readily evident, a good father. Maybe only one or two kids because of his busy career, but he’d make time. I could tell. He’d listen and console. Maybe not coach sports teams, but definitely attend a few games. He’s just in his mid-twenties so that’s a few years down the line, but we could spend that time getting to know each other. Taking it slow. Traveling and sleeping in on Sundays. We’re both young, we shouldn’t rush into responsibility. Our careers are enough right now. Our careers and each other.

     My imagination told me that he was looking too: noticing the fluid contours between my green and pink skirt, and the soft gray, velour hoody that hugged my slim waist and drew attention to my broadening bust line; taking in my flirtatious brown eyes, and long knitted scarf. It was probably a lie, but it made me smile. And that’s when he looked at me. Casually and with no real indication of lust or fancy. I looked away, trying to be coy, but his eyes didn’t linger. At least he knew I was there, I thought.

Amanda Hanna was born and raised in Kingston, Jamaica. At age seventeen she left for the           Kent School in Kent, Connecticut and continued on to the University of Richmond where she          received a BA in Theatre with a concentration in Arts Management in 2005. She presently          resides in New York City where she writes her popular and increasingly well-known webblog. (http://myspace.com/amanda_hanna). She is also currently writing a novel and interning at PAPER Magazine.