Friday, December 03, 2004

A Hypothetical Situation

Say that sometimes you walk to the subway in the evening after work. You enjoy the SoHo store windows, and maybe you stop to scout out a few Christmas presents. Sometimes you pass three men, three chubby, middle-aged, jeans-and-a-sweatshirt kind of guys, and sometimes one will yell to the other:

Hey, I'm fuckin' GUMBY, here.

Sometimes, you think this will be the greatest thing to happen to you all day, because it was pretty great, and your day has only been medium-okay so far, and greatness doesn't seem like it's anywhere on the horizon, but that's not so bad.

Sometimes, though, you will take the crowded 4 express to Grand Central, and, because you got there a little early, you will stop and buy the Times because you're going to treat yourself to the crossword puzzle, even though you already read the whole thing online and you should really save the dollar for parking.

Sometimes you get to the 5:12 to Beacon on Track 32, and the doors aren't open yet, except for one all the way on the end of the car that the conductor left open by accident. So, you stand around while the cheaters sneak onto the train and sit in the good seats. You are vigilantly moral until your purse arm gets tired and you want to take your coat off, and everyone else is walking right onto the train, even people who haven't waited at all, even people who have contemptible daily tickets, so you get on, and sit in a different place than usual because someone took your regular seat.

Sometimes, because you are in a different seat, the hot dad ends up sitting next to you. Occasionally, he notices you are doing the crossword, and realizes hey, you're that girl he always sees doing the crossword.

But only once in a blue moon will he slide across the seat and lean over your shoulder, enough so you can feel his breath on your hand, and say "I think one-across might be paella."

You will argue that paella has two l's, so it doesn't fit, but point out that you already tried to spell it out in the margin because you thought of it too. The two of you will talk for a really long time on the way home, mostly about books and crossword puzzles. He will tell you he's impressed that you know Zeus's mother's name, and you will finally get to make fun of him for reading an Oprah book. He will only mention his wife once.

You will stand by the doors together from Croton Harmon to Cortlandt, talking about Barbara Kingsolver, and how it's funny that one of the clues you couldn't get was a palindrome, and a character in the book he's reading collects palindromes as a hobby. You will notice that Pinchy-Faced Limp Hair Woman, the slut of the 5:12, is shooting you daggers because the hot dad has never once spoken to her, or anyone else.

You will be the first two people up the stairs at the station, where he will hold the door for you, and you will be the first two people in the parking lot, where he will say "Well...have a good night..." and you will say "Yeah, you too..." and try to walk suavely to your car while frantically dialing your best friend's number, and you will scream into the phone the minute your car door is shut, "I JUST TALKED TO THE HOT DAD FOR SO LONG AND HE'S SO MUCH OLDER THAN ME AND HE'S SO HOT."

Then--only then--you too will find yourself wondering what's so wrong with destroying a marriage and ruining the rest of an infant's life, should the opportunity fully present itself.

1 Comments:

Anonymous Anonymous said...

that baby was an accident anyway. THIS is fäte. bräd likes döts.

12:11 PM  

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