Waiting for Our Train

"There's this girl—" I can get off on words alone, "There's this beautiful girl."

I'm sitting on my bedroom floor, slouched against the wall, with two slick fingers tracing the creases of my pussy. I'm speaking aloud and my words are blurred by heavy breathing.

I'm alone, but in my mind, I'm talking to my best friend, Nicole. I'm not only telling her about this girl, but how, "I want her. Like, you wouldn't believe— how bad I want her."

My head rolls back and I tell the ceiling, "She knows it too." That's a lie. I'm sure the beautiful girl has no idea. The simplified version of Nicole that lives in my mind asks me, How do you know?

"It's the way she looks at me."

How's that?

"Like she wants me, too." I groan at the syrupy leap of heat up my insides, from my groin to my throat. "Like she wants me to give it to her."

The Nicole in my head laughs. You're pretty cocky when you're talking to yourself.

I nod, grinning shamelessly, "That's right. I know exactly what I want—" my voice snips with a ruthless edge I've never let anyone else hear, "And exactly how to get it."

In my fantasies, I'm confident. Aggressive, even. What's the point of fantasizing about something that's attainable?

I spread my pussy with one hand and rub my clit with the other, circling it with two fingers. Nicole fades away and now I'm talking directly to the girl in question. Before you know the truth of it, live the fantasy with me.

We drop straight into a script I've played through before. The cocky me that lives in my fantasies is slouched, just like I am now, but she's settled in the middle of a couch with the beautiful girl in her lap. She's running her hands back along the girl's thighs and whispering, "How was I supposed to know?"

The beautiful girl in my mind has no voice—here's reality shining through the cracks, I can't give her a voice when I've never heard her speak—so the words she says just come to me. Her lips move and I know she's said, You couldn't tell?

"I could tell, but how was I supposed to know?" I'm tugging on her shirt, pulling her closer. She lowers her head until our noses are touching.

I feel a flicker of that breath-quiet, eyes-unfocused intimacy, the snap of tension when two people are hovering, nearly kissing. It's been months since I've kissed anyone and loneliness is an echo chamber for my lust.

She whispers, Am I going to have to ask?

I'm wet now, the lower half of my pussy is swelling and thickening and I can feel thin electric threads running down my legs, pulling me past arousal and closer to orgasm. I growl, "You're gonna have to beg."

I live alone so there's no one to hear me gasping and panting, "Yeah, fuck, you like that?" while my mind feeds me stuttering, flickering images. My palm flat against her underwear, everything is hot and wet and her thighs are trembling. My fingers slipping under her thong strings, tugging so I can watch her face react to the pressure and friction. My arms around her waist, my legs spread under her weight, my head nuzzling hers.

I'm making helpless sounds and curling around myself, my stomach hitching even as my fingers continue their rhythm, unfazed. Would she be loud for me? "Louder," I breathe, "Let me hear you. Tell me when I— Tell me when it feels good."

In my mind, I've flipped her over and rumpled her dress up to her stomach. Her thong is hanging from one ankle and she's holding her knees open. I scramble the sensations my body is reporting to my brain and imagine that the two fingers curled inside me are actually curled inside her. I can see her slender chest rise and fall as I kiss her neck. I'm slurring filthy words against her skin, making promises, telling her what I'm going to do to her, with her, for her, because in my dreams, the girls always want to hear it as bad as I want to say it.

Even when I'm giving—and cocky-fantasy-self is always giving—I end up begging, "Don't stop, don't stop," just before I come. Then there's a long stretch of silence as my body wrings me out. My head knocks softly against the wall and my knees pull toward each other. Fantasy fades to black and I let wordless, sightless ecstasy wash.

Orgasm just takes you in, no matter how you got there. Whether you're breathing deep, trying to keep your head on straight and your nerves in check in the hands of a new lover, or escaping to a fantasy lover with no flaws, whose hands are actually your hands, orgasm doesn't care. It just says welcome to the top, and smiles like the checkout clerk that looks you over when you buy a cucumber and tub of vaseline at the same time. Orgasm might not say anything, but you know it's thinking, So that's what gets you off? Wow... okay.

Nicole is a lot more practical in real life, and much worse at reading my mind.

"So... what are you saying?" She pulls her sunglasses down her nose so I can see her eyes.

"I'm saying I don't know how much of this you want to hear, because last time you got so annoyed—"

"I won't get annoyed."

"You don't even know—" I shake my head with frustration, "Okay, fine." I shrug, "It's about a girl."

"I'm already not annoyed. Tell me about this girl."

"I see her on the subway."

I look up at Nicole but she just says, "Okay."

"Every day. She's always in the same train car. She wears a lot of blues and greens, like her whole wardrobe is single-color dresses and sweaters and ankle-length pants. And sometimes really simple patterns. She has these great turquoise pants that have a big fish scale pattern printed all over."

"Probably a mermaid."

"Yeah," Nicole's patience gives me confidence, "Beautiful black hair."

"Natural or dyed?"

"Natural." I nod definitively; I am an expert in girls with black hair.

Nicole drinks from her coffee cup and says nothing. I can feel the question coming.

"She never reads or listens to music or looks at her phone," I say, "She just stands there. Never sits. Just stands and looks around."

"Probably wants to give you the chance to appreciate her outfit."

"Probably."

"So have you talked to her?"

There it is. I just shake my head, like I can make my answer smaller that way, quieter.

I'm looking down but I can hear the smile in Nicole's voice, "How long have you been watching her?"

"I don't know," I do know, "Maybe a month?" It's been at least two.

"Okay," Nicole slaps my knee, "Here's the plan."

I draw a slow breath.

"How about this? Instead of just trying to say hi, which hasn't worked in the past," she pauses and I nod in agreement, "you just practice the idea of speaking."

"I'm good at practicing ideas."

"Yeah I know, but," Nicole shifts and I look up at her face, "try making the smallest movement, too. Just— so tiny," she squints her eyes, "Just open your mouth and go 'hh—'" Nicole breathes out the very first sound of a 'hello.'

I raise my eyebrows and laugh in a burst. It sounds like a sneeze.

"Hey, come on," she nudges me, "Please. Just try it. Baby steps."

"That's—" I shake my head, "I can't. That's even worse than saying something. What if someone noticed I was doing that? Hissing at her like a really quiet cat?"

Nicole snorts, covers her mouth, and shakes for a second with silent laughter.

"I'm not going to do that."

"Then you have to say hey."

"That's creepy. Nobody talks on the subway."

"Sure they do. Compliment her outfit. Tell her you like all the blues and greens she wears."

"She'll think I'm coming on to her."

"Yeah," Nicole nods with wide eyes, "because you will be."

"I'm going to freak her out."

"Maybe. Do you have any other ideas?"

I pause for a long moment, "Pine away silently," I look up at Nicole and we both crack smiles, "for months and months." I start laughing before I reach the end of the sentence and Nicole laughs with me. It's funny because it's true. No way around it.

My moment comes sooner than I expect. I don't even have the chance to practice the idea of practicing Nicole's idea.

The next day it's pouring rain when I leave my apartment. I only have to walk two blocks to get to the subway, but my hair is plastered to the back of my neck by the time I'm underground. When I take my lunch break, the skies are still grey, so I walk a block to buy a shitty umbrella like a real adult. It's lime green with thin white pin stripes.

The butterflies spring to life about half an hour before the work day is over. I know it'll be another silent train ride of watching her in the windows' reflection but I get nervous anyway. I'm on the platform at 5:12, leaning past the yellow line to spot the train's approaching headlights.

I'm never the first person to step through the doors. The rush of people through the doorway gives me a little cover to look around and figure out where she's standing. My chest kicks itself when I see her. My eyes fly to the floor and my body forgets its rhythms. Breath suspended, heart on pause. I think part of my infatuation is the way my body reacts when I'm around her. I don't know where that rush comes from. It doesn't make sense, does it? To feel like that when you see a stranger?

She's by the car's other set of doors so I side-step down the aisle, past wet plastic shopping bags and an unattended stroller. By the time I get there, the pole in the center of the car is surrounded and covered with hands.

In a flash of bravery, I reach for the same metal loop that she's holding onto. Moving on instinct and numb social reflexes, I look up and give her a quick smile. She smiles back.

I start mentally drafting a text message to Nicole in all caps about this game-changing smile exchange. There are seven stops between where I get on the train and where she gets off; I spend the first two trying to breathe slowly and quietly. When I dare to glance up at her, she's running her fingers through her wet hair. The top half of her shirt and front of her skirt are soaked through.

I watch her from the corner of my eye as she pulls out a comb, tips her head back, and draws her hair into a low ponytail. She uses a light blue hair tie, of course.

Cocky-fantasy-self is clamoring in my mind, walking me through what she'd do, step-by-step. Lean in, speak softly, "All blues and greens, huh? They look great on you. I love your style; you always catch my eye." Reach out, touch the hem of her shirt like a question, "And such nice fabrics too. Probably shouldn't get this wet. Here, take my umbrella. No, seriously. Yeah just take it. It's one of your colors anyway."

Without warning, my brain shifts that gesture from the carefully guarded bounds of fantasy to real, tangible possibility. Why not? I'll just give her my umbrella. My stomach wrings itself dry at the thought.

I let the idea sit at the back of my throat as the train leaves the last station before her stop, where I can just as easily spit it out or swallow it down. My body is on high alert, flooded with nervous energy. Somehow it just feels like the right thing to do.

I reach out and touch her arm, "Here."

The beautiful girl looks at me and I stare. She's stunning. I feel my eyes widen to take her in. I smile tightly, reflexively, and hold out my umbrella.

She looks down at it and back up at me. I say, "Take it," and feel my face flush hot.

"What?" Her eyebrows draw together and she looks confused.

"Your clothes are nicer than mine," I say, too quietly, as the train begins to slow for her stop, "You should stay dry on your way home."

"Oh, thank you, but—" she blinks, shakes her head, and looks down. The train stops moving.

I cut her off, as embarrassment grabs the reins and urges me to end the conversation immediately, "Just take it. Please." The doors open.

Her eyes are on my face again and she jolts through a quick little head shake, confused laugh, surprised smile. "Wow," she finally takes hold of the umbrella handle, "Thank you."

She steps toward the open doors and looks back at me.

"Goosebumps. I still have goosebumps."

Nicole laughs again, her eyes bright.

"She was kind of looking at me like 'what the fuck' with a little bit of 'what do you want from me' and 'uh oh' thrown in, but there was definitely a softness there." I feel a little self-conscious describing the way the beautiful girl looked in such detail. Observation alone says something about the intensity of an experience. The more you notice, the more it matters to you.

"She was definitely looking at me like," I wiggle my head forward, searching for the words. I cock an eyebrow and say, "You know. Like, 'hel—lo.' I stretch out the word and Nicole snorts.

She parrots me, mimicking the suggestive tip of my head, "Like 'hello, beautiful.'"

I roll my eyes and laugh despite myself. These conversations always make me giggly. I'm proud that I finally have a story, that I finally did something.

Nicole says, "Then what did you do?"

"Nothing. She got off the train. I think I just stared at her." With these hopelessly lovesick eyes. A look that speaks. I could feel it on my face. I smooth over my own fumbling and awkwardness when I retell my misadventures for Nicole, and fail to mention the way every emotion paints itself on my face. Nicole probably fills in those details herself; she knows me well enough.

"So," Nicole laces her fingers together, "What's next?"

"The ball's in her court, right? I guess I wait for her to give it back."

My mind races ahead. Possible futures branch out in all directions and fantasy paints little white flowers on its favorite paths.

I'm in the shower, touching my stomach with absent fingers. I'm four months ahead of myself, past half a dozen dates, nervous hand holding, hickies in the foyer of her apartment building, and a couple nights in her bed. She has come over to my place and I'm making self-deprecating jokes about my cooking, bringing her too many cups of tea, trying to keep up a conversation while my mind is elsewhere—oh yeah, no, my place is always this clean—watching her hips when she walks away, and trying not to make a move too soon, to seem too eager.

A kiss by the sink turns into messing around on the kitchen floor. I clumsily spread out a couple of towels while she pulls up my shirt, kisses my chest. She's a squirter and now that I've gotten a taste of that I can't get enough. I make her lay back, shoulders against the kitchen cabinets, so I can eat her out. I've got two fingers in her pussy and I'm learning from her soft sounds that she likes it slow. She squirts and soaks my shirt, then squirts again and it's dripping off my chin.

Back in the real world, I'm standing still in my shower, letting it run. My mouth is open just enough for the water to drip in. It runs hot off my upper lip and pools in the crevices between my tongue and teeth. Some drops warm down my throat, the rest crawls back out the corner of my lips and trails down my neck.

She grabs my head when she comes, pulling me down against her clit. I'm grinning against her, looking up with sharp, wolfish eyes, so pleased with myself. I give her what she needs, not what she thinks she wants. I press my open mouth hard against her, getting her off with the steady stroke of my tongue. I don't pick up my pace to match the urgency in her voice, her moans and cries. I fuck her slow and she keeps coming and coming. She's holding her breath before every inhale, asking her muscles to release so they can jump, jump, jump to tense with pleasure all over again.

When she pushes me away, I lift up and bite my lip. She looks down at me, flushed and shaking with breathy laughter. I stay there, resting on my forearms with her spread legs laid against my shoulders, watching her. Her breathing slows. She settles and starts combing her fingers through my hair. I lower my head again.

I start at the bottom of her pussy, where thick white goo is dripping out. I follow the folds with my tongue, and listen to the blissed out sounds she makes. I push my tongue inside and the sounds catch. Her legs twitch and she puts her hand back on my head. She holds me still and swivels her hips forward then back, fucking herself on my tongue.

I moan, open-mouthed, and she whimpers. Thick arousal surges through me and I feel my pussy swell. I'm already so wet that the lips are slipping against each other every time I move. Now the ripples make me feel like I could come from this. Even cocky-fantasy-self is humbled, reminding her muddled brain to ask for this again next time.

The beautiful girl chases her own pleasure. She sets her feet on the ground and lifts her hips so she can rock deeper. Her grip on the back of my neck tightens and she pulls me so close that my nose is pressed to her clit. No friction now, just deep and deeper pressure.

When she lets me go, my body jolts up, searching for more; she's got me so turned on I can't think straight. I catch her jaw with one hand and knock her head against the cabinet in my haste. I kiss her hard, panting against her cheek, moaning into her mouth. I start laughing, delirious with it, and she's laughing too. Our open mouthed kisses dissolve into laughter and I lean back to let her see the look in my eyes.

I run a wet hand over my face and reach for the shampoo.

I'm jittery and distracted the next day, playing out conversations in my head. I leave work a few minutes early and stare at the concrete of the station platform, breathing deeply.

I see her before the subway doors have even opened. My chest feels inflated as I step on and move closer to her. I stand across the car, visible but not too close.

My eyes drift to the floor, to the windows, up the overhead route maps, and down again. When I finally look at her, she's leaning against the pole, looking down, chewing the inside of her cheek. She doesn't approach me and I don't approach her. She doesn't have my umbrella with her.

Her stop comes and she walks straight past me as she leaves.

"So, yeah." It's after ten and Nicole has to get up early for work but I called her anyway.

It's been three days and beautiful subway girl hasn't even looked at me. My hopefulness and newfound confidence in my ability to start conversations and win women's hearts has faded to something fragile and bitter.

"Okay, so, she's not giving it back. You did tell her to take it."

"Yeah, and I mean," I'm curled up on my couch, laying on my side and facing the couch back. I have a blanket tucked in under my chin, cocooned around my body, "That's fine. She can have it. But wouldn't you talk to the person that gave you their umbrella? Like just a simple 'hey' and a head nod?"

"She might not recognize you."

"What do you mean?"

"Like, she might not— realize, that you're there. Every day. On the subway with her."

I blink. That hadn't occurred to me.

"Not everyone is as crazy observant as you are. They don't, uh— memorize people from afar. Maybe the first time she saw you was when you gave her your umbrella."

Frustration gets the best of me, "Then how does anyone meet anyone else? How do people move through the world? If they don't notice the people around them all the time? If they don't notice the people staring at them on the subway?"

"Yeah well that's the other possibility. You creeped her out."

I drop the phone, turn my head and groan into the cushion.

"Probably not!" I hear Nicole yelling through the speaker and bring the phone back to my ear. "Probably not, because you're not creepy. I don't know if it's possible for you to be creepy. You're too quiet."

"Quiet and desperate is like, prime creepiness."

Nicole snorts, "Yeah, still. I doubt it. She might just be straight, too."