When I got on the Q train, right away I noticed an attractive woman seated in one of those perpendicular benches by the window. I ended up sitting near her, in one of the seats built along the side wall of the train, so she was looking right at me, in profile. I had gotten just a glimpse of her when I came in and had this weird desire to look at her again, but I couldn’t do it without being obvious. So I pulled out something and began reading. Of course, I was intensely conscious of her presence, whether or not she was looking at me, or what I was reading. (It was the latest issue of The Washington Spectator.) I found it really hard to concentrate because I became obsessed with this mystery person. What did she look like? Was she pretty? Did she wear glasses? What color was her hair? And did she even notice I existed?
Anyway, after going over the Manhattan Bridge, we arrived at Canal Street, and she got off, without a second glance at me. As she exited, I finally got to eyeball her: pretty, dark hair, glasses. But, just to make sure she had really been there, I impulsively reached out my hand to her seat and touched it.
It was still warm.