Next Stop

If they let you smoke on the train, I'd ride it all day long.
Life happens in the moments between stops.
People getting on and off and getting off to get it on.
I always wonder why people pay for television when the best shows are unveiled under the hospital lighting of the A train.
Relationships beginning and ending in the space between Columbus Circle and Penn Station.
I have fallen in love sometimes three times over in the span of one ride.
That boy that just came from the gym with a childlike nerve, knowing how good he looks with the sheen of sweat glistening on his brow, making eyes at you while he pretends to be disinterested.
Or the couple whose conversation had become tiresome somewhere between Jackson Heights and Hell's Kitchen, yet your presence now has them talking about the possibility of spicing things up a bit.
Then, there's the man so striking that you forget which was your stop.
You start to question how long you could follow him to see where he exits, and consequently how long it would take you to get back to where you were going in the first place.
It never happens on your day off.
He never gets off at your stop.
You never end up in the same coffeeshop moments later, attempting to work up the nerve to ask if this seat is taken.
And if it did happen, then taking the train wouldn't be as much fun anymore.
You'd have reached your final destination, and the fantasy is over.
You could ride freely without headphones or distractions because now you get on and off by memory.
Its obvious when you've been riding too long.
Close your eyes, and you're there.
Eventually, you open your eyes.
The coffeeshop is full of angst and 30 variations of the next great American novel in different states of development.
There's an OKCupid date heading to disaster.
And he's not there.
He transferred.
I guess that's why we have Missed Connections.
Maybe he's at another coffeeshop writing the same thing about you.
Maybe he's at a bar telling his friends how stupid he was for not saying something to you when he had the chance.
Maybe he's at Kinko's having business cards made for the next time he sees you.
Maybe he's sitting on his fire escape writing tragic poetry about how yet again he let one get away.
Next time, I'll make the connection.
What's the worst that could happen?
You compliment someone by telling him he's handsome?
He could be straight.
At least you're on the train and he probably won't hit you.
And if the embarrassment is too much to bear, all you have to do is wait for the next stop.