i like how my friend thinks and writes. it is familiar and real and good and as easy as walking. thank you for sharing, blue.
Source: anadromyM Ocean View, rush hour. This past Monday. A very drunk man in a filthy tan trenchcoat and surprisingly well-maintained brown shoes that I think someone like J.D. Salinger would call “brogans” totters on just as a seat next to a plump middle aged woman reading a New Yorker opens up. He sits. The train lurches forward.
Drunk man: You’re a very attractive lady. Has anyone ever told you that?
Attractive lady: … (tries to act like she’s too engrossed in her magazine to hear him. fails to prevent the ghost of a grin from breaking out)
Drunk man: Not in a long time, huh? You haven’t been told that in a long time. I know it. And it’s a shame. Because you are.
Attractive lady: … (more making with the reading, but nobody believes it anymore.)
A long, pregnant pause. The drunk has not taken his eyes off the side of the woman’s face. Somehow, his attention is not creepy or uncivil. He maintains a tactful distance. He’s not weaving too badly or pushing her to respond. His eyes have a soft cast to them. And not just because they’re practically brined in whatever booze he’s been pickling himself with for so long. The train arrives at the next stop. We’re all secretly wondering what’s coming next. Everybody on the whole damn car. It’s obvious. Will the drunk guy bag his object of affection? Will she give in and at least look his way. The magazine might as well be upside-down at this point. She’s not reading it. For fuck’s sake, there’s no way she’s reading it. She knows it, I know it, the office girl chewing her gum and twirling her hair way on the other side of the train knows it.
I almost stay on past the stop. But I can’t. I’m hungry and I’m tired and I want to go home and watch stupid television until I fall asleep. I step through the doors just before they close. I wonder what happened, though. I’ve been wondering about it all week.
