erosion

When I finally hopped the 9:44 train yesterday, I sat across from young man who was sketching the shapes of a woman in his notebook. I watched his hand move as he balanced the notebook on his knee to combat the uneven ride North, each stroke adding dimension and emotional depth. He added light, feathery detail to her whirling ponytail and shaded her shapely legs, each planted on either side of a concrete ravine. Nearly suffocated by apocalyptic debris of the razed cityscape, he drew her strong and resolute.

To my left, a phone sang an old Destiny’s Child tune. A woman dug through her purse and finally barked, “What?” Her hair was pulled tight and she smoothed the fly-aways as she listened to the caller. “Why should I?” she asked. “When was the last time you did something like that for me?” She paused and dropped her head. “I jump for you. You need something and I jump. You never jump for me. You don’t give a damn.” She listened and nodded along with the inaudible voice on the other end.

The artist looked up from his picture, adjusted his all-black Boston ball cap, and began erasing. The woman closed her phone and repositioned her sunglasses, her lips pursed and nose red.

the only thing missing was the white horse.

The three taps on my shoulder occurred in such concise succession that I couldn’t blame it on an accidental move in the crowd of bodies. It was deliberate, and I wondered if my roommate or a former student was in the same car. People here don’t typically chat-up strangers. Turning a bit and looking over my shoulder, a grinning man well over six feet tall grinned fingered his tailored chinstrap.

“What’s up, punk?”

I looked to my left and to my right. “You,” he said.

“Oh, uh, hi then.”

“You know that girl on your mirror?” he continued with a grin, “She’s fine—think you could hook me up?”

I felt my eyebrows furrow. “Um...on my mirror? I’m not sure what you—”

“You know,” he winked, “on your mirror.”

I forced a polite and utterly clueless chuckle. “I don’t think I understand what you—”

“God, girl. I’m tryin’ to say you’re beautiful.”

“Oh,” I laughed. And then it really clicked and my cheeks burned and my voice sunk. “Oh. How…strange.”

His face twisted in confusion. “What?”

“I mean, thank you. That’s very---thanks. Very much.” And as the train slowed at Andrew, he leaned in a little too close and whispered, “I’m hung.”

Even though it wasn’t my stop, I barreled through the crowd and onto the musty, underground platform while he shouted “What the---” at the closing doors. As I waited at Andrew for the next train, my bewildered knight rode off into the tunnel, his big-ass sword at his side.