To the Stranger Who Stood in Front of Me in the Subway Car
I want to do dirty things to you.
I didn’t notice you at first, when you walked into the subway car and stood in front of me. I was reading The War of Art by Steven Pressfield on my Kindle app, and I was engrossed in it. But when the train suddenly jerked causing me to lose my footing, I finally looked up.
That’s when my heart raced, and my blood rushed down to my clit.
I wished I had the tangible book in my hand. You might’ve been intrigued by my choice in literature. It could’ve sparked a conversation. I take it you’re somewhat of a creative yourself, what with all those tattoos and all. I peeked at the classic one on your hand —a woman’s head. I secretly hoped I would see you again one day. And if I did, I would recognize you by the black hair and rosy cheeks between your thumb and wrist.
You smelled nice, but I didn’t smell cologne on you. I can only assume the scent was actually your pheromones.
I like how you towered over me. You made me feel small. Small in a way that a woman like me doesn’t usually feel. Small, in a good way. Small, in a sexy way.
You didn’t speak, but I sensed your voice would be somewhat deep and raspy. And I imagined you’re not much of a talker. Not because you don’t have anything interesting to say. Because when you do talk, it’s to say something important or witty, something actually worth listening to.
You exuded confidence. Some might mistaken it for arrogance. I knew better. I wasn’t fooled by the rigid look your chiseled jaw formed on your face. I tried to imagine what ideas you had circling in your brain. What kept you so focused, so distracted from me? I tried to penetrate your thoughts. It didn’t work.
When my eyes wandered, I met your gaze, briefly. And I watched the corner of your lip lift. As subtle as that smile was, I still panicked and turned back to my reading. Except, I couldn’t read. The words on the screen rearranged into words Pressfield didn’t intend to have in his book. Words that formed sentences to describe the scenarios I imagined in my head. Scenarios where our bodies would rearrange into positions defined by the words that had rearranged on my screen.
My mind, drunk on these thoughts, wandered on until the train stopped. The doors opened, and you stepped out and disappeared into the morning rush. And I — now trapped inside the subway car you once shared with me — stood there with only one thought. Because of all the thoughts I’d had before, only one remained:
I need to get laid.