Commuting 4-11

Stuck in the tunnel, stalled out, re-routed, it takes half an hour to crawl three stations, people fuming and pissing, and I flee that train as soon as I can, leap across the platform to an unfamiliar subway line. The doors close, I pick my head up, and I am in another country. A country where they don’t let ugly people on public transportation.

I am a rusty crow, noticing three girls on one bench, all smart, young, hip in completely attractive and different ways. Their heads are bent over their reading, each at the exact same angle, and bing! bing! bing! each has a tiny gleaming silver stud in their right nostril.

A seat opens up across from them, next to a beautiful woman. Shiny, straight, jet black hair, luminous skin and huge dark eyes. And she takes out a huge compact and starts putting on make-up. What? She is drop-to-your-hands-and-knees-and-howl gorgeous. She is roll-on-your-back-on-a-bed-of-broken-glass stunning. I can hardly not do it myself. How could she possibly improve, what flaws does she see in that mirror? I watch her put on mascara, brushing the underside of her lashes, over and over. Then the top side, equally thoroughly. Then working the very inside corners, working the tiny brush, while the train is in full sway. Out comes a huge brush, and she starts puffing something all over her face…

I am, of course, transfixed. Until the doors open and a little blonde doll gets on. She is just so pretty. Stylish up to the second, lithe, a pointed chin like a kitten. She looks over her shoulder. Looks over her shoulder again. A third time. I do too…there is nothing there. She hitches her purse on her shoulder. Flips her hair. Re-positions her barrette. Fidgets. Examines her shoes. Adjusts her belt. Rubs her nose. (oh. now I get it) Takes of her coat. Puts down her bag. Re-positions her barrette. Does it again. Flips her hair. Looks over her shoulder.

I get off at the next stop.