Tuesday, September 25, 2007

Line 7, should be my lucky number



As I entered the Metro I bumped limbs with a young woman who held 1 arm bent at the elbow and raised like a spear to apply lipstick - just as I was pulling down a seat next to her in the central section of the car, where 8 people in total can sit down in combinations of 2, at the crossroads of the long main aisle and the short alley running between doors on both sides of the car. This open space offers standing room and several chrome poles to hold onto when it's crowded. At mid-morning there are empty seats. About 6 in the central block were occupied.
The young woman smiled at me to indicate that it was alright, she took no offenc(s)e at being jarred, and she was confident that I was not only not offended by having met her elbow while sitting down but that I understood that her efforts to finish applying make-up in this setting had a particular significance which would not be revealed. I returned her look with a reassuring but controlled grin and saw that she was probably in her 20’s, scruffily dressed in various layers of black. In the moment after the collision when she looked away from her compact mirror and at me, I couldn’t help noticing that her eyes glistened too much for this time of the day. She returned her gaze to the mirror and continued with the lipstick operation.
I secured a position of balance and comfort on my seat and looked straight ahead at the man across from us. He wore a suit which I will not easily forget: the fabric of both jacket and pants was green & yellow hound’s tooth. He was already looking across the aisle at the 2 of us in a kindly way. There was something about the random pair we formed, suddenly together, that caught his attention, as though he found meaning in our shared seating arrangements and contrasting height, hair, eye and skin color, style of dress. His stare was persistent but without malice.
Then the bottom of a large square-toed leather shoe came into view as the man sitting nearest to him across the main aisle swung his left foot up onto his right knee and commenced with a rapid shaking movement. The socks extending up the ankle from the shoe were lemon-colored, short with 1 dark rim at the ankle periphery. His suit was light-colored, his white skin tanned, his hair cut to military precision.
The hound's tooth suit smoothly rose and exited at the next station, gently vacating his fold-up seat by slowing the upwards motion with 1 hand as he stood up, all of which prompted lemon socks to spring from his seat to the newly vacated spot in 1 noisy sideways jump, after which he flung his right foot over his left knee and found a resting point for that foot on the chrome pole which had no other takers at this relatively quiet hour of the day.
The young woman and I got off at the same stop. She walked ahead of me to the exit, the spike heels of her pointy-toe boots clattering on the platform. Her eyes, shining a bit less, perhaps more glazed over than before, met mine again for a second before we boarded an escalator for the ascent to the street. I settled in 1 tread below her, staring directly into the red numbers on her back: 55. At street level she was received and embraced by a tall young man. The cobblestones interfered with a boot heel as they drifted off together, and she stumbled. I think she regained her balance with assistance from her companion, but it was hard to tell.

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