On the T [On the T]

by Aileen Ma

I have tons of friends who probably treat staring at beautiful strangers on the T as a regular sport, but I am not one of them. I am more of a stare-outside-the-window-at-the-passing-midtown-scenery-and-spout-random-thoughts-type of guy, so really, I don’t know why I even started staring, or why I’m still staring. But I am.

Maybe my friends wouldn’t even call her beautiful, but who cares about that anyways, and isn’t it enough that I think she is. That I think the way her eyes take in the streets passing by exudes something sweet like honey and that even the sadness she lets escape only make her green eyes shine more deep. Auburn hair frames her pale yet artistically freckled face, and I don’t even care to check what she’s wearing ‘cause I’m so busy reading what her eyes, and lips, and ears and nose have to say. I’m too caught up in unearthing her story. Finding out her reason for the question why.

I just can’t shake this feeling. Like how you feel like you’ve known someone once before, like you’ve already fallen in love with everything about them the very second you laid eyes on them.

Ok, so maybe I’m crazy. With my face tilted to one side, arm raised high clutching the railing, I just can’t stop reading her face like a favorite book of mine. Darn it, just get a hold on yourself, ok? Close your eyes, count to five, shake it off, then get off at the next stop.

I open my eyes and find her staring at me, eyes kind and smile wavering shyly.
***

Nobody ever really looks at anyone in a city. And when I say look, I mean really, really look. But there he is, and I don’t even know his name, but we are both staring at each other, like we’re in a conversation. Like we’re old friends, maybe more, who have waited so long to have each other back in our lives.

Oh I wish I had a pen to write this down right now. I don’t think I’ll ever believe this later when I get back unless I have some written proof of it.

Because really, how can you stare at someone and feel like you just know them, just like that. Like you’ve known the way their golden brown tufts of hair have settled and gotten in the way of their eyes since a long time ago, when really you didn’t.

But maybe some things just are. I’m really smiling now, and I don’t even know why, but I know am doing it because I can see him smiling too. I want to tuck a strand of my red hair behind my ear so badly now, but I’m so afraid to do it. I don’t want to look away, not even for a second.

Because what if it all could change, in just a moment. After all, when really all you knew about someone was that their eyes spoke stories, the kind that most people gathered about their elbows and wrench out in tears and laughter only when it is too late, that had to say something. It definitely said that they could tell the sort that could make you smile, without knowing why. But could their stories make you cry? Would you eventually find reason to cry over those beautiful brown eyes that told stories?

I’ve already cried too many tears inside, over a boy with warm chocolate eyes who never turned back. Who’s to say that this won’t be the same way?

I feel scared to death now and my shoes seem especially stuck to the grimy floor. Should I go over there and tell him? Or would he already know?

Shoot I almost forget we’re on the T right now. If he left, that would totally suck.

Because the crazy thing about looking at him was that it felt like coming home.

***

I feel like if I take a few steps I could just walk over there and maybe utter an actual human word, but maybe I overestimate myself. The last time I ever did that, look where it landed me. Into a long and tangled maze of a road that ended in heartache and hating all girls named Julia. Of course, the last time … some things were different. But who’s to say that they’re really just the same?

And what if her name was Julia?

That’s it. I’m walking over there.
***

Suddenly the train comes to a stop, and the rush hour crowd flows in through the sliding doors. Wedging themselves in between the boy’s determined footsteps, and blocking the girl’s view to the other end of the train section, the after work crowd settles into their usual cloister of mess, sweat and loudness. Heartbreak, would’ve-beens, and all.

Oh well, that’s too bad, they would say if they knew. And then what about avoiding that law-suit.