Everyday Moments: Love and Strangers on the F Train

Another day on the F train turns into a 95-degree mess. The sun doesn’t shine in the subway stations—yet.

George Harrison wrote, “Here comes the sun,” but this past winter has felt like a long, cold, lonely one. Standing on the Hoyt Street platform waiting for the A or C, I find myself thinking about just running away. There is a pretty, well-dressed woman standing next to me. I smile at her. She immediately turns away, likely thinking, another creep. She might be right.

I squeeze into the packed car and end up pressed close to a man in a cheap, well-worn suit who smells as if he spent the night swimming in cigarettes and cologne. Nearby, two high school or college girls, dressed way too revealing for a crowded subway ride, stand shoulder to shoulder, whispering about something.

The train stops and starts, pushing and pulling the riders as if they are being controlled by a marionette. I move away from the man and stand by the door.

The woman from the platform glances at me again, then looks away. I just smile. The train grinds to a halt, and a quiet, garbled voice filters through the speakers, offering a whispered announcement that they “apologize for the inconvenience.” At least, that’s what I think it said. I stand there as a faint stream of cool air blows from a vent somewhere, carrying the distinct, stale aroma of urine.

Eventually, I find an open seat. When I look up, I notice the woman is sitting directly across from me.

“You come here often?” I ask, offering an obvious, self-aware smile. “Unfortunately, every day,” she says, laughing.
She seems as burnt out as I feel. I wish I could take her by the hand and just spend a “Ferris Bueller” day with her. Call in sick and ignore my life for a day.

At the next stop, the passenger next to me gets off. She shifts over and takes the empty seat. Suddenly, our bodies are pressed against each other, our eyes and lips only inches apart in the crowd. That’s when I feel it for the first time—a sudden, pulling energy passing from me to her, and her to me. Like magnets to metal. She feels it too.

The pull is overwhelming, demanding every ounce of my strength not to give in to it. She looks into my eyes, and I can see a distinct sense of desire. I am not a sexy man; I’m typical-looking at best, to be honest. I do look younger than my age, and my mind is definitely not sixty years old. Yet the desire emanating from her, the sudden heat between us… it reminds me exactly of being seventeen.

When I was seventeen, I had a brand-new driver’s license and a car at my disposal in the evenings. I had met a girl, sixteen, while we were rehearsing for a community play. I had the lead, and she was a chorus girl with a couple of lines. One night during a dress rehearsal, I was standing behind the curtain waiting for my cue. Anna came and stood right beside me. She was dark-skinned, a little shorter than me, with a maturity beyond her sixteen years. She wore a whisper of perfume and was dressed in full character: a long skirt, a buttoned-up top, and a derby hat pushed to the side.

We stood there in the dark, and our hands brushed. That was the first time I ever felt that kind of magnetism. She felt it too. We turned toward each other, and our lips touched. Then I heard my cue, jumped, and walked out onto the stage.

After the rehearsal, I offered to drive her home. I parked the car in front of her house, and we sat there “speaking” for hours. We only stopped when the porch light flickered on, the front door swung open, and her father stepped out onto the stoop.

“Uh oh,” I whispered. “‘Uh oh’ is right,” she said, quickly fixing her top and adjusting her bra. She rolled down the foggy window and called out, “Hi Dad, I’m coming.”

Now, decades later, I am feeling that exact same pull toward a total stranger on a crowded subway car. As if by silent agreement, when the doors slide open, we both get off at 14th Street.