The Watch Her

Her bicycle had blue pedals and her lips were often clad with a rouge lipstick that she wore with grace. The length of her auburn hair was short, but long enough to hover just above her shoulders which were gently brushed by it every time she turned her head to see who else was in the Red Line subway. The red line formed by her closed lips could be seen from across the train car. I was enraptured by the various and nuanced configurations that the 36 muscles that control their movement could muster.

Whenever I was able to stand next to her, I would peer over to see if she was looking back at me. All I needed was a second or two of eye contact, just to let her know that I thought she was the most beautiful girl I had ever seen. However, my ocular advances went unrequited. Like most humans today, she was too entertained by her phone. To a person like me, who likes to read people’s faces and eyes, this was torture. I was in hell, figuratively and almost literally as I was technically under the world of the living.

I don’t take rejection well, so her aloofness only made me try harder to get her to notice me. On one occasion, I looked over at her phone screen and noticed that she was playing a simple game of solitaire, which immediately prompted me to wonder whether that was the name of the game when it came to her relationship status. Up to this point, I had seen her on the subway, on and off, for about three months and never had the chance to talk to her. Finally, one fateful day she looked up from the sensory vortex that is a smartphone, and beamed a smile at me. I was in the clouds. Later on that same trip, I needed to transfer onto another train, the Gold Line, and as it turns out, my dream damsel was in distress, running towards the train as the doors were closing. Here was my time to shine, to prove to her that I could be her hero. As the train’s cold robotic voice delivered its message “Stand clear, the doors are closing!”, I disobeyed its blasé warning and stuck my arm out interrupting its closing mechanism and triggering its “Do not hurt humans” programming. It was social anarchy and definitely the most punk moment of my life up to that point.

As she crossed the train’s threshold, she was welcomed by a smiling me and like any grateful person she graced me with the biggest smile her lips could produce, so much so that I almost didn’t recognize her. In my head, this would cement and form the base of a budding love interest. Here was I, the guy who was there when she needed help. But boy was I wrong. She took her bike and sat next to another dude as far from me as she could, as if I had done the opposite of helping her catch her train. So there I was, a jilted blue-balled punk. I wasn’t expecting her to drop me hard on the floor and eat me alive with kisses, but a simple “thank you” would have sufficed.

Every now and then I still see her and as always, she won’t even give me the time of day. In fact, the last time we locked eyes, she gave me the good ol’ “What are you looking at, creep?”, a look that I totally deserve and am truly surprised that I don’t receive more often. On top of that, she often wears a black leather jacket, which gives off this loner vibe, this “leave-me-the-fuck-alone” attitude. I get it, I know where I’m not wanted. Guess it’s time to find my next victim.

 

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