Waiting for Our Train

I exhale slowly, "Pretty gay looking straight girl."

"Hey, you never know."

There's a pause, then I say, "Do I look gay?"

"Not this again."

"Should I get an undercut and grow my bangs out?" I'm kidding, just teasing Nicole for hating "queer" haircuts.

"No. Fuck," she clearly has no patience for teasing after ten, "Don't be stupid. It's not about how you look, it's about how you look." That's one of her favorite sayings. She always punctuates it with both index fingers thrust away from her eyes, toward an imaginary object of her attraction.

"How is she going to notice how I'm looking at her if she hasn't even noticed that I'm there?"

"Yeah, true," Nicole yawns, "Well, give it a few days. Maybe she's just not interested."

"Yeah," I reply too quickly. She's right and it hurts. I didn't want to hear that. I get off the phone as fast as I can and tuck my head under the blanket.

What if she does like women and she has noticed me and she's just not interested? What if the girl that makes my heart stop simply doesn't care?

I never really wanted to get to know her, I tell myself; fantasies are better left as fantasies. I spend weeks hanging from the line that I anchored to this girl. I still get nervous before each train ride home and it pisses me off.

I get tired of it, swing wide to irrational anger—who does she think she is, that's so rude, talk about self-absorbed—and back to quiet infatuation. My mind runs circles and tugs on its leash but my body is steadfast: just looking at her turns me on.

When I'm horny and lonely and half-dressed at home, I'm sitting still with unfocused eyes and imagining her in my lap. I can get that full-body charge just thinking about touching her. It's the kind of arousal that feels impossibly light and crisp, the kind of want that grows from disbelief, from seeing, hearing, feeling something that can't possibly be real, can't possibly be that good.

My imaginary sex life with the beautiful girl is rich and varied. I spend so long mapping out touches and sounds and breathy conversations that I build her into a complete character, a perfect foil to my cock-sure fantasy self. She alternately melts at my charm and puts me in my place with quips of her own. Sometimes she lets herself be taken and sometimes she has her way with me. I replay favorite scenes, often speaking my own lines aloud, and touch myself how I imagine she would touch me.

The quiet way that I live out fantasies alone in my apartment is easier to do than admit. When it's entirely in my mind, it's safe, untouchable. Like blowing smoke into a fish bowl and setting a book on top. The smoke is hazy and fleeting, but I can pretend it's a solid for a little while. I think most people protect their mind's right to wander. You wouldn't beat yourself up for wondering what it would be like to rob a bank.

But when I lift off the book and dip my hand inside, the illusion shatters. I know it's my own hand on my stomach, not hers. I have to acknowledge the gesture, the fact that I'm trying to touch this thing that can't be touched. That's mortifying in a deep way, like I'm embarrassed by myself, not just by my actions. People aren't supposed to live in their heads like that, spinning wants so thick that they get a little buzz just by thinking about them. I see myself from outside myself and feel like a coward. I live with a desire that I'm making no effort to act on, now paralyzed by ambiguity and a gifted umbrella, and that's an extremely lonely feeling.

Ironically, the loneliness is strongest when I'm near her. It withers into my chest when I'm dreaming about her on the train. It competes with the blush racing across my skin when I'm looking right at her and imagining I'm fucking her with my tongue, so slow. Just pushing into the wet heat and pulling back, breathing in the scent of her pussy and moaning. I look at her face and imagine it wrecked with pleasure. I drop my gaze and picture the look in her eye when she's tugging on my hair. I imagine the sound of her voice asking me to go down on her again. All the while, the pit of my stomach drops lower and lower, throwing its weight around to say, hey, stop, come on, this doesn't feel right.

On the subway, the real world and the smoke world sit right next to each other; they examine each other through the glass. Fantasy always pales in comparison because reality has this startling, frightening vibrancy. Just about anything can go wrong. But, my treacherous heart reminds me, it's possible for things to go very, very right. Not likely, but possible.

Indulging in fantasy means ignoring the odds, pretending I could win the lottery with any ticket. It feels like something I shouldn't let myself do. But you kind of lose control at some point. It comes when it wants to, not just when you invite it.

I'm too embarrassed to bring her up around Nicole so I talk through the possibilities with myself, out loud, at my kitchen table.

"I talk to her and she's not interested," I say to the empty room. There. The worst of it is already out in the open.

"I talk to her and she's taken." That's a likely scenario. Yeah, but, my heart whispers, you're patient. And people can be persuaded. Even closed doors have hinges.

"I talk to her and it's a total surprise. She doesn't know what to say and runs away." That wouldn't be so bad.

"I talk to her and she thinks I'm just friendly and/or creepy. She doesn't get the message." That wouldn't be so bad either. No worse than where I am now.

"I talk to her and she's nice." I pause and feel my bruised heart brace itself, "Even encouraging." What would I do then? "I'd keep talking to her." I announce, defiantly, "I'd talk to her every day. Until I worked up the courage—" I leave the sentence unfinished.

"Or, I talk to her and she's interested." My stomach twists a little and I breathe in, "She's interested in a big, obvious, immediate way. She invites me to dinner, then back to her place," my voice falters as my stomach pours itself out, tipping its tingling contents down my spine. I let go of the beginnings of a new fantasy and refocus on the task at hand.

From the most likely scenario to the least likely, now it's all out in the air. The last option swims around my head and tries to slip back in.

It's not about her, right? It could be anyone. There's nothing special about her. I let it go and pick it up again. I think about her too often. I do nothing and dwell on it.

I kiss my palm and imagine they're her lips against my skin. At the grocery store, I daydream about buying a chocolate bar and slipping it into her bag. I get my hair cut and close my eyes and I'll give you one guess whose fingers I was dreaming about having tangled in my hair.

At home on a Sunday afternoon, I'm spinning my wheels. I kneel on the floor, press both palms flat against my face, and fold forward into a little ball. With my forehead resting on the ground, I breathe in.

I imagine this cute girl that works in my building—I'm pretty sure her name is Amanda—sitting on my couch with her shirt off. I take my cocky-fantasy-self by the hand and coax her over. She climbs awkwardly into Amanda's lap and rests her hands on Amanda's ribs.

They kiss and fantasy-self starts to grind her hips forward. I feel like I'm watching porn: half-interested, half-ready to cringe at some awkward dirty talk, or a tip-of-the-tongue 'I don't want to taste it' lick, or a faked orgasm, or something similarly horrible.

Fantasy-self starts kissing Amanda's neck and Amanda hums like she thinks she's supposed to make noise, but isn't sure what or how. Fantasy-self reaches for Amanda's hands and sets them on her own thighs. Amanda leaves them exactly where they were placed.

I open my eyes and stare at the floor. I need to vacuum more often.

It's too hot for September and everyone on the train is sweating. I'm watching her because I can't help it. She's wearing a sleeveless shirt and I'm wondering how she'd look with unshaven armpits. Black hair and pale skin, I bet she'd look like a vision. If she was mine, I'd be trying to persuade her to give it a try. Come on, let it grow for two weeks, when we're on vacation. Just for me. I bet you'll like it.

The train doors open and people flow in and out. I just happen to be watching her face when her eyebrows jump. She raises a hand and smiles in the same surprised way she did the day she took my umbrella.

A man in a sweaty blue shirt says, "Hey!" and she laughs in reply.

"Wow, what's with this weather, huh?" He stands next to her and takes hold of the pole.

"Yeah," she widens her eyes dramatically, then looks down.

"So what are you up to? Headed home?"

"Yep." Her voice is much quieter than his. I feel myself glaring at him.

"Cool, cool. Hey, did you talk to Trevor before you left?"

"No, was he looking for me?"

"Yeah, we're all going to meet up at Posh Box tonight."

"Oh," she nods and smiles.

"Around eight. You gonna be there?"

"I, uh—" she fumbles with the straps of her bag for a moment, clearly searching for an excuse, and I badly want to save her. I want to rush over and say, Hey babe. Didn't see you over here. We still on for tonight? Only cocky-fantasy-self would ever call a girl babe. That idea doesn't feel as close to the surface as my brilliant umbrella idea, so I stay put.

"I'm not sure. My landlord is showing my place tonight and I want to be around to keep an eye on things."

Wow, this girl is an excuse champion.

"Oh, come on," Blue Shirt gives her an incredulous look, "Just come out for an hour or something," he lowers his voice and steps closer to her. "Hide your valuables and come have a good time." He laughs and she smiles back.

I'm suddenly protective and angry. I want to shove his chest, bloody his nose. She said no. She wants to go home.

"Okay, maybe," she nods, still smiling. "We'll see."

"Great," he looks pleased, "You know where it is?"

"Yeah."

His voice drops even lower and he cocks his head, "I'd love to see you there."

A pause settles and stretches. The tension in the air snaps like static electricity.

She says, "Yeah?" so quietly that I think the sound of my heart crumpling itself into a ball is louder.

"Yeah," he nods, swallows, "I'd love to get to know you better."

Her eyes flutter and blink. She smiles back at him.

"See you there?" He moves back toward the doors as the car slows.

"Yeah," she says.

When he leaves, she presses her lips together and looks down. I watch her watch the floor for the rest of the train ride.

Is that what you want?

Lust can live a long time. It blooms and contracts and blooms, like a flower closing its petals at night and opening them again for the sun. For such a liquid, unsteady thing, it is surprisingly resilient.

But anger and jealousy and frustration are irritating grains of sand in our oyster. They get bigger and bigger with our attempts to smooth them over until they grow into these huge, impossible to ignore pearls of perfectly terrible ideas.

Not safe and soft like fantasy, these ideas are hard and slippery. They carry a conviction that comes to define you. I could live a year like this and not flinch.

I'm sitting at my desk, watching the clock on the wall wind itself from 4:13 to 4:14. Forever in suspended animation. Comfort with motherfucking ambiguity. Put that on my resume.

Soured by anger and grief—what are you grieving? the way you waste your time?—I see my paralysis as a tragic strength, not a weakness. I am so strong. I am the steel cable that holds up the bridge. Tension is all I know. My body is tired of living on the edge and it's ready to come down. Rejection's got nothing on the long drain of never knowing.

I leave early and crouch against the wall of the platform. I'm not nervous, not angry, not this time. I watch the trains come and go until the second train after five thunders in.

I stand up and walk straight through the doors. She's halfway down the car, wearing a mint green shirt, black pants, and matching mint green shoes.

I walk up to her and say, "Hey."

In the moment after I've spoken and before she's realized I'm talking to her, the world tips. My scrambling equilibrium sends up a warning flare; it feels like reaching into the fishbowl and discovering that smoke actually is solid. It's velvety and terrifying.

She looks up and her wide eyes focus on my face. She says, "Hey."