Cute guy next to me on the subway looking exactly like all the suits who pile on the 1/9 express at 42nd street. Blonde hair and blue eyes with a black leather messenger bag with attached hanging nalgene bottle.
I was busy reading the latest New Yorker, the “Life During Wartime” issue. I skipped to the back first, which I always do, to the cartoon contest. I didn’t win the last one I sent in a few weeks ago. Apparently I’m not clever enough. At least not New Yorker clever.
Interrupting my reading of “Yugoslavia 1991” was two girls who were standing next to me:
“She just doesn’t get it. He totally doesn’t like her, it’s like so pathetic.”
“Oh I know, I mean she should take a hint ya know? You don’t just DO something like that when it’s so OBVIOUS that the guy doesn’t like you.”
“I know, like what was she even thinking? It’s like so ridiculous I can’t even believe it.”
“And then to like keep calling him?! Trying to like talk to him and shit.”
“Oh I know! I like honestly don’t get what was going through her head.”
“Me either. But whatever, she’s not even pretty.”
“Ew I know, totally not pretty enough for him. She’s like such a bitch anyway. I don’t even know why we’re friends with her. She’s always talking about everyone behind their back.”
I laughed out loud. I couldn’t help it. I was eavesdropping because that’s what people do when you’re packed in like sardines on the 1/9 uptown express. They were right there sharing the same pole as me and cute guy with the briefcase and too much gel in his hair. I looked up realizing my outburst, and the two girls shot me a dirty look and got off at the next stop. Cute guy was smiling and holding back a laugh too. The girls weren’t pretty and the guy got off with me at 72nd and walked in the opposite direction, his nalgene swinging behind him.
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