Steam Locomotive

He got on at the same station I do. Tall, wearing mostly black, using a messenger bag to carry his papers and a few books. Wire rimmed glasses sitting on a dark golden face framed by brown hair salted with stubble, which was more than a five o’clock shadow and less than a full beard. Divine. I wanted to eat him. Summer brings out the animal, you know, and the train is full of heat from packed-in bodies that’ve been rushing through the humidity to make it to and from work.

My man stood near me. I could feel the temperature emanating from him. He was tall and slim. Long but not lanky. No floppy limbs dangling like marionette arms and marionette legs from clumsy strings. His arms, his legs, his feet and hands were wedged in place not by bulgy muscles but by…something I couldn’t figure out. The mystery of how his body kept itself together made me want him more. I wanted to tinker with the parts.

We rode and rode until we got off at Bryant Park. Except we couldn’t get off because a woman was blocking the door. “Excuse me,” I said, and my man, right behind me, repeated when she failed to move, “Excooz me.” At last, a voice! Polish, perhaps. Never accent-fetishist, but knowing this bit of him through two words made my mouth water.

Outside the train door, he walked right and I took the lonely exit left.