Earlier today, I set out to write an article on flirting, from the point of view of a flirt I know....not naming names. Unfortunately for me, my mind took off into a fictional scene and so a short story was born. This received great feedback, so I hope you like it too, grammatical errors aside as it was just a quick write.. On the uptown IRT. The uptown IRT was unusually empty for this time of day, and I had no difficulty finding an empty seat. Two other passengers boarded at the same time that I did, but they both disappeared into the corner seats reserved for the handicapped. I found an available spot in the middle of the car, that was directly in front of a white haired man who had his head buried behind the Wall Street Journal. As I was about to lower myself onto the slippery fiber glass seats, the train pulled off and gravity pushed me down with very little finesse. The new intrusions into the once empty space and my whispered, damn, caused the man to look up at me. Our eyes met briefly, but I could sense the smile behind his eyes, though he did not wear it on his face. Once settled, I pulled out the latest John Grisham book and started to read from my dog eared book marked page. The man across from me had also returned to his newspaper article but I could feel his thoughts on me and it alerted my attention. I drew one leg over the other and crossed it at the knee quite in the exaggerated pose of a talk show hostess. My legs were bare and smooth, and my high heels only exaggerated their length and firmness. I wore a charcoal grey pencil skirt that accentuated my flat stomach and rounded thighs. One red toenail peeked out from my peekaboo pumps and I was glad to see that my pedicure was still in place. Like all New York City subways, the IRT was noisy and bumpy, and there was always an occasional jolt that sent me leaning to either side, which caused me to unwrap my legs and plant them flat on the ground for balance. Without making eye contact, I could feel the mans averted eyes peering into the dark triangle between my skirt and my thighs. Like laser beams, his eyes scanned my legs as I slowly draped one over the other to return to my practised pose. I could feel my breasts swell beneath my white silk shirt, and I lifted them just slightly so that the top of my decolletage was more pronounced. On page 53 in my book, Grisham was narrating a love scene, and for a second I closed my eyes and imagined it was me and this man. The man in front of me was dressed as a Wall Street executive and it was most likely that he was a broker of some sorts. Was it stocks? Bonds? Logistics? I didnt know, and yet I felt I knew him.. His square fingernails had been clipped and buffed to a pleasing shine. He had blue eyes and short cropped white hair with an extremely handsome youthful face that reminded me of Anderson Cooper. I wondered if he was gay, but then I looked down at his left hand and saw his wedding band. A simple gold band. The wedding ring threw me, and I pulled myself together thinking I cannot flirt with a married man. Yet I couldnt help it as his sneaky glances energised me. Twice we made direct eye contact, neither smiling, both knowing. Twice we were drawn back to our reading material. I wondered what he was reading, as he never turned a page. And what good was the Wall Street Journal in the evening anyway? Twice I had to reread page 53. The same love scene, and I found my tongue slowly licking my upper lip as my eyes became hooded from the erotic scene. This last time my eyes were drawn to the edge of his newspaper that buckled into his crotch. Slowly I tried to read the text from bottom to top, as if I were reading Hebrew, and eventually our eyes met over the top of the newspaper. We held our gaze, and a nervous hand went up to push my hair behind my ear, yet my hair had been neatly braided down my back. Without breaking the gaze, I could see as the bottom of the newspaper moved as of its own volition,and a nervous smile crossed my lips. He broke the gaze and coughed from somewhere behind the newspaper. All too soon, the loud speaker interrupted our moment and the conductor was announcing the connecting trains, signaling his stop. He started to gather his things together, a briefcase that I hadnt noticed and a small shopping bag. I wanted to get off with him. I wanted to ask him his name. I wanted to invite him for a drink. I wanted to have dinner and go back to his apartment. I wanted to kiss him and smell him. I wanted to do what the girl in the Grisham story did to the young lawyer that she was in love with. And yet I knew, I would never approach him. He was married, and I didnt cross that line and I hoped too that neither did he. He reluctantly pulled himself up as the train pulled into the station. His dress was immaculate and spoke of wealth though not ostentatious. He was much younger than his white hair, not even forty, but he exuded confidence and success. I felt I would have fallen in love with him, if he had driven all the way to East Harlem with me. I could hear the lock release as the doors started to open. He walked forward and held on to the pole next to me. His thick wedding band clanked against the metal of the smooth pole and I couldnt help but look at it. As the door opened his blue eyes sought my big brown eyes and he smiled and slipped his card into my hand. I had to take it. I wanted to touch him, and yet I felt guilty and disappointed. I wanted him to be perfect. I wanted to believe that not all men cheat; and I was determined never to call him. The door closed and he was gone. I was no longer interested in reading, so I slipped the business card between page 53 and 54, and was about to close the book when I noticed he had written on it. On the back of the card it said God youre lovely. On the front he had crossed out all the identifying information except his first name, Rob, under that he had written, but Im married. SArthur, On The Uptown IRT
Posted on: Tue, 08 Apr 2014 22:30:18 +0000
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