Last evening, I stood next to the man of my dreams on the subway. The express train was running slowly, and he was reading The New York Times. Tall, short/buzzed (yet full) dark head of hair, brown eyes, 6 feet tall, nice hands. Slim but fit, dress shirt. A bunch of Japanese peeps got on the train with Yankee jerseys on their way to the game and some American dude, perhaps their tour guide, was explaining laboriously to them that they'd have to hide their large bags to get into the stadium. The love of my life looked up from his paper and smiled.
What I wanted to say:
Hey. You're cute. Do you have a girlfriend? Do you want to be my boyfriend?
What I said:
Do you know who they're playing tonight?
"Arizona," he replied, as the doors opened at 59th Street, my stop. I got off awkwardly. I'm an asshole.
P.S. Ehh, you know what? Screw him, he had gay shoes on. Those brown suede foul-weather all-terrain shoes with the black tread rubber soul that work all well and good in Vermont but in NYC you might as well go fuck yourself. Unless you can pull them off, and in that case, you'd have asked me for my number. Beat it, dickhead.