2002-07-16 - 2:14 a.m.

I got on the train to work. There were no single seats open, so I picked one of several empty two-persons at the back, sat down, and opened up my book.

Sitting in single two-seaters is kinda risky, though, cause you can't pick who ends up sitting next to you. Your seatmate could end up being smelly, or perhaps carrying radioactive garbage bags full of empty cans, or part of a group of 12 cacophonous teens. Or enormous, or a crabby old lady with issues, or a sticky kid that wants to talk. Or be in possession of a hip-hop or metal blasting walkman. Or bust out a styrofoam container of smelly food and eat it right next to you.

Much to my relief, a cute chick sat down next to me, which kinda struck me as odd, since there were still a bunch of vacant two-seaters. Maybe, I thought, she figured that sitting next to some Red Sox ballcap wearing kid would be better than waging the risk of being coupled with one of my aforementioned caricatures.

Now, I say that she was cute, but I should mention that, at the time, I could only assume that she was cute. She was young. She wore stylish bluejeans and open-toed sandals. Her big toe was painted red. She had curly blonde hair. Ostensibly gazing at the book in my lap, that was all of her I was permitted to see.

The train got moving, and this girl sitting next to me, well, how do I put it?

She rubbed her arm against mine. Rubbed? Well, not quite. Rubbed kinda implies a certain explicitness. Intention. Certainly not brushed. Too much movement. Touched is too fleeting. And grinded is just plain out.

She leaned into me.

She put more pressure on my arm than I was accustomed to. Her arm, her shoulder, straddled the line between absent-minded insignificance and a desire, for whatever reason, to make itself known.

I didn�t put up a struggle. I didn�t fight it.

I didn�t do anything to encourage or discourage it.

I didn�t know what I was supposed to do.

As each stop came and went, the girl got a little less subtle. Still, she never drove it far enough for me to truly know if I was just imagining the whole thing, or if it really would have been OK for me to, say, accidentally graze my finger down her leg.

Every now and then, she would turn her head away. Stolen glimpse opportunity, and I embezzled each one.

I made a show of turning the pages of my book. I don�t know why. Maybe I just wanted to do something.

I turned those pages with intensity and passion.

The train dipped below ground. Halfway there. I was losing time.

And my glasses slipped down a bit. I pushed them up, and then my hand swung down automatically and harmlessly. No contact. Not even an attempt.

And she moved. Slightly. Away.

A sign? Was I not giving her enough attention? I felt chemistry. I felt something. I felt more than nothing. Should I make a move? Did I blow my chance? Or, still, is this all in my head?

I did nothing. I did, however, regain the privilege of her arm.

She leaned against me in such a way that, if I knew her, I would have taken it as a sign that she wanted me to put my arm around her, so that she could lean her head on my shoulder.

And I really, really wanted to do just that. Perhaps even stroke her hair.

Copley.

Arlington.

Boylston and its curve.

And then Park. We cuddled without cuddling. We had intercourse without the joy of sex.

The somber charcoal skyline had opened just a crack. She touched me, but I hadn�t touched her back.

And Park was her stop. She hastily spun around before standing. She didn�t just stand up. She rubbed her whole body against my arm, my body, flooding me.

I looked up for the first time. Our eyes met for the first time. She shook her head and got off the train.

Yeah. It wasn�t in my head. Yeah, I blew it.

Yeah, I�m only now realizing that I should have gotten off of the train.

Idiot.

I should have done something. There was just one bridge to cross, and none to burn.

No. Wait. That could possibly have made her uncomfortable.

I�ll never know.