One Chance.
I’m splayed across two seats on the subway ignoring her looks. She is giving me that lucrative window of initial courtship. There are no second chances to make a good impression. The clock starts its melodic tic the moment she holds eye contact with you.
You have only seconds. The moment will pass. There is never a chance to take a gulp, prepare your talking points, and walk over. Fools perish with indecision.
She’s wearing white heels. Her jeans frayed at the bottom as if scratched by the asphalt when she wore them with flip-flop sandals. Her black hair burnished with a violet hue. Her cheeks lack the blush of a lesser experienced girl. I tilt my head and give her a complimentary smirk. Tonight I have no stomach for a chase.
I turn away from her. She begins ego saving procedures: rationalizing a reason why it was best that I did not talk to her. My value in her mind naturally begins to drop.
Apathy of the soul.
Next to me is another obedient boyfriend. Flip flops and North Face fleece. Stupid grin upon his visage. He’s attempting to nuzzle into his girlfriend. Her toe-nails are inappropriate for her open-toed footwear. Absence of both pedicure and nail polish. Her hair lacks a healthy youthful glow. I sense a hint of baby-powder; she obviously has not washed her hair recently.
She does not reciprocate his affection. Her eyes are firmly engrossed in her smartphone. She evidently is a very creative spirit, her thumbs are dancing across an iPhone screen. Her boyfriend is persistent, he has changed tactics: attempting to entwine his fingers with hers. She gives an unmasked shrug. Her fingers have more important things to be doing. He is undeterred. His eyes blaze with the naiveté of a calf to slaughter.
Behind me is a group of friends. They are all obviously ready to storm the town and take shit from no one. Their cackles and stomping of cankles vibrate throughout the car as their pungent excuses of perfumes reminiscing of the stench experienced within a camber of a backed up sewage plant begins to cling to the clothing of those around them.
The cute one will find herself unable to talk to any attractive guy for her posse of the odious will run interference. Their jealousy and own inability to make themselves more appealing will lead them to submerge their more attractive friend in the same misery they engross themselves.
However perhapse tonight is the night that a shining knight will find himself near the group and his interest will not be sparked by the cute one of the group. Perhapse, he will find himself interested in the other girls that never register on the radar of the boys in the club or bar. Perhapse tonight a guy will realize what a great personality she has and how great and accomplished she is.
I trust my gut and my gut is telling me that her personality is as uninviting as her cottage cheese thighs.
My stop is near. Friday night is beginning. After a hard week everyone is preparing to let loose. However it is easily discernable that no one on this train besides me will enjoy themselves. Their mirth is alcohol inspired and false. Behind every laugh, smile, and back slap is their fear of going home alone.
The night is young; they still have 6 hours before last call. The frenzy in their mind is far off.
Train doors open. A girl walks in. Boner inspiring. I smother the reaction to sit up straight. I do the opposite of all the other guys. Steve McQueen.
She walks towards me. Her head is low, her shoulders up to her neck. Protective stance. She knows her value and she knows the envious glares that she will be greeted with if she raises her chin.
Brunette. Svelte. Blue heels and a silver dress.
She is wearing a stylish blazer. It is a chilly night and this girl has considered the unattractive appearance of a girl shivering on her walk outdoors or during a cigarette break.
She turns to her friend and says something. Her head rises and I find myself staring at full lips. Inspiring lips.
I perceive an Eastern European tone. I could not have had an easier conversation starter. I can flirt in Polish, Ukrainian and Russian. For the times it isn’t those two I can easily transition and start a conversation on how similar the Slavic languages are.
Doors part. My stop.
I get off and pause as the train behind me rolls into the darkness.
I was not in a hurry. I could have talked to her and then made my way back.
Coulda. Woulda. Shoulda.
Excuses.
Fools perish with indecision.