Metro Loomin'

Inspired by the truly excellent Indie Web Carnival prompt second person birds.¹

*

The sheaf of your hair was sagging, slowly, taking its sweet time releasing its shape on your back. In the train car, where I'd been standing above you, I suppose it had been up; I can't remember. I was too busy trying not to seem as if I was watching your hands under your boyfriend's chin, tangling with his hand, self-consciously tucking itself inside the hollow of your neck, elbow still carefully touching, but not resting on, his forearm. Your eyes were large and lined; your T-shirt stretched across your chest. From two feet above your head, I only ever heard your voice once. Walking down the stairs behind you, the waves in your hair reminded me of schoolmates, relatives. The motion of it, the slow uncurling, stood out on a Saturday afternoon on the purple line.

It's easy to fall in love on a train, but I always try not to do it with women. Whenever I do I find myself taking wrong turns, unpleasant murmurs wafting up from the people around me: the uncomfortable parasocial tones of audienceship.

*

Fifteen minutes prior: I'd seen you out in neon, tight running gear in the sun, midriff bared. When we made eye contact, in my collared shirt and short hair, the subtle operation that passed between us could've been the hello-there, the isn't-it-hot-out, the fuck-norms-short-clothes-feel-good-don't-they, or if I was lucky a why-yes-I-do-look-hot-well-noticed: but something chilled, something pulled tight, and I was ogling you. Probably you noticed I was more butch-woman than young-man after a moment; but out of the corner of your eye I must have just been a collar, a mop of hair, and interested eyes tracking your body. Threat modeling is about the first blush; I get it. I've been there.

Women know they're being watched. They look good because they're writing to be read.

*

That's what I was thinking about when I watched your hair come uncurled.

I'd decided that you felt contempt for this partner of yours: it was in the apologetic, belated way you made eye contact after that quip you made that seemed to have been a little strong for him; and in that careful effort of your elbow, touching without resting.

Still, I imagine that having someone be there is worth it, yeah? You felt like you were here, like you were unscripted. In motion. "It sucks a little less to be here with you," I imagine we say to many stripes of companion, when we first start to relax around them, start dissociating less.

*

In line at the turnstile, I saw you carefully descending from the platform in an impeccably draped white gold sari. We made eye contact, and you laughed. Half a second's glance had managed the my-god-beauty-is-pain. Your laugh made me smile big.

I caught up with you outside the turnstile, before the stairs, and said, "you look beautiful, though." It was true; I'd been fighting not to crane my neck, to watch you in motion. And my God, did your delighted smile do things to my heart. Happy Onam to you, too; you set me aflight down the entire flight of stairs.