I saw him immediately when I entered the subway train at Herald Square. He was tall–taller than I usually like my men–and lean. He was wearing a bright blue shirt and gray slacks. Silver necktie. He had thick, straight ash-blonde hair that was long-ish on top and cut down to a buzz on the sides. It looked like a vintage military hairdo.
The hair was shot through with silver. Just a bit. Very light. Almost white.
His face was bony. Blue eyes. I can’t describe it. Not conventionally handsome, but compelling. He looked a bit like Lance Armstrong. He looked a bit like Heinrich.
Like my mother.
He was carrying an old-fashioned leather satchel. He opened it and took out a weirdly-shaped pad of paper. It was very long. Had to be some sort of special tablet–it has squares on it, like graphing paper.
His hands were long and spindly. Downed with yellow hair. They looked strong. He reminded me of a wolf. A coyote. And he had that look, that special demeanor, that all the men I’ve ever loved have had. A crispness to him. Meticulous. Fastidious.
I pictured his hands around my throat in the darkest hour of night.
I stared at him all the way to the 4th Street station. I could see people watching me stare at him, and I didn’t care.
He met my eyes once. I was afraid to be rude, so I dropped my gaze, but my heart was pounding so hard!
You have to get this guy, I thought. Pick him up.
I’ve picked up men on the train before. Several times. But the last one was years ago…Jeff, the Machinist.
Fucking approach him. Just approach him and make conversation. Ask him about his strange writing tablet. Is he an architect? Or even just say, flat out: “I am very attracted to you. Are you attached? May I give you my contact information?”
Because I’ve done that before, with excellent results. Men act startled when I hit on them, but they never tell me no unless they are in a relationship and monogamous.
My friends, I couldn’t do it. Why not? Usually, I’m fearless with men. And I was well-dressed and looking good, too! I was wearing my pretty black lace dress and had nice makeup on, and my hair was down. It’s true that I’m sort of a fatass now at 128 lbs, but most dudes don’t see that…only mean ones like the Surgeon.
He tucked his special pad of paper back into his bag and left at 4th Street.
He stared at me through the glass as the door closed and the train moved away.
I blew it. I totally blew it.
I’m gonna ride the same train tomorrow, though and see if he’s there.