Hey juys!

You know that feeling you get on a very rare occasion–especially when you’re single (holla!)–when you see someone who just strikes you so profoundly hard that you feel this overwhelming compulsion to speak with them and perhaps get to know them better? Not just that you want to but that you need to? The kind of thing you see in movies and read in stories?

Well I didn’t.

I had never felt it quite strongly enough in all my 25 years and  8 months of life on this planet for it to be a need. Sure, I’d seen people around who made me think, you know, “Wow, that girl is super pretty,” or “Man, she really looks like my type.” But it had never infected my every nerve, forcing me to exchange even the tiniest of remarks with one another, perhaps just spout out a simple “Hello!”

At least, not until yesterday.

Taking the subway on a daily basis has this way of forcefully exposing you to a plethora of different types of people. Living in the city in general already does that in a way, but everyone is always moving and you only catch glances of people; it’s impersonal. In the subway, time is stopped and everyone is given ample time to fully appreciate every detail of the surrounding crowd.

But I didn’t need all that time.

My eyes were instantly drawn to her, as if everyone and everything else had faded to grey and she was the only one left sitting there in vibrant color. Her sunlight colored sun dress was the perfect shade of yellow, so she was probably very outgoing and energetic. A white frill lined its edges and four huge pleats fanned out from beneath the thick white wrap that hugged her fit waist just below her bosom.  Her slender, toned legs were crossed and her foot was dangling a small yellow and white polka dot flat that matched her ensemble perfectly.

And then she looked up at me.

I nearly stumbled onto the train, though now I can’t remember whether I tripped because we had locked eyes for the briefest moment, causing my heart to sink quickly into the pits of my empty stomach while simultaneously forgetting why I was even on the train in the first place…or if she looked at me because I tripped. Whatever the reason, her icy blue eyes momentarily hovered on mine, and I can’t remember the last time I felt so insanely nervous. Her wavy auburn hair bounced ever so slightly as she returned her eyes to the book she was reading. It was the second installment of The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, a book I had just read recently.

Common ground!

Who was I kidding? I wasn’t going to actually talk to her. Truth be told, despite my otherwise confident and outgoing demeanor, I’m actually unbearably shy when it comes to speaking with prospective love interests. I’ve never been too good with improv, and I always end up fumbling my words to the point it sounds more like some Far Eastern language than English. I pretty much have to be forcefully thrust into a situation in which a lady and I already have reason to be speaking before I am at least moderately comfortable enough to make a move.

A stranger on the subway? Forget it.

But I couldn’t deny the magnetism that kept pulling my eyes toward her. I couldn’t stop. I became self conscious after a short while; could other people tell I was staring? She probably could. She probably knew how attracted I was to her, she was probably insulting me relentlessly in her head, probably planning on telling her friends about this creep on the subway who couldn’t stop leering at her. I was probably just inflating her ego. I should have just stopped staring, I thought to myself, so she wouldn’t get the wrong idea.

But how would she know?

Her nose had been buried in the book the whole time. I would know; I was the creeper staring at her. Her eyes were darting from one side of the page to the other. She was a quick reader. I was jealous, I’ve always been a terribly slow reader. I always read things in my head as if they were actually being read aloud or performed. It makes things more fun that way and helps me not miss any important information. But her, she was probably incredibly intelligent. Well put together, beautiful, intelligent. She was probably perfect. I needed to say something. 

But what?

This was the part I had never been any good at. Sure, she’s wearing my favorite colors, she’s stunningly beautiful, and she’s reading a book I’ve read before. Don’t comment about her appearance, I thought to myself, it’ll make you seem base and vain. If you’re going to do that you really need to keep it strictly to fashion and color choices, nothing about her body; she’ll get the wrong idea if you say anything about her body. And girls these days all have weird hangups about receiving any sort of compliment; they think all you want is to get into their pants no matter what you say. The safest bet would be to say something about the book. 

But what?!

Well, you could say something about the first book. Ask if she’d seen the first movie. She probably had. You could inquire as to whether she had seen the original Swedish version or just the American version with 007 in it. You could ask how far into the book she is, whether she likes it or not, whether she likes it more than the first book, which is her favorite character and why. Whether she picked up the book on her own or if she heard about it through friends first. If she has a boyfriend or not.

Wait. What?

My mind was beginning to wander, hoping she wasn’t taken, how exactly I could approach her, following up with intriguing conversation, nixing every subsequent idea as too vague or too boring, too vapid, too drab. There was no way she would be interested in anything I had to say, but the wrenching in my stomach wouldn’t stop. I bit my bottom lip, infatuated by her poise. Just the way she sat there, reading, filled me with such intense lust and desire, yet a terrible fear of rejection left me void of motivation and kept me firmly planted several seats away.

Why was this so difficult?

What did I have to lose? What was the worst that could possibly happen? She could flip out and call me a chauvinist pig, but would she really? I guess if she did I would quickly learn that she wasn’t worth the effort. She could just say no. She could ignore me. She could say yes! She could invite me to sit next to her! She could actually be interested in having a conversation with me! I could feel my heart fluttering about madly inside my chest. Surely everyone around me could feel the heat emanating from my body or see my shirt pulsating from my pounding heart.

And then she stood up.

As if my shirt wasn’t already palpitating enough, it went double time. Her pretty yellow dress swished about as she walked toward me, her auburn hair bounced gracefully around her soft cheeks and neck, but her icy blue eyes were up and determined. I was nothing to her, just another passenger on the train. She was the sun, but I was just a another blade of grass. The train stopped and she grabbed the metal bar right next to me to stabilize herself. Her foot brushed mine before she caught her balance, but even though it was her fault I couldn’t stop myself.

“Sorry,” I said.

She looked straight into my eyes for what felt like a long, long time. This time she was not even a foot away from me, either. I somehow managed to muster up the strength to return her gaze. Her lips curled up into the most beautiful smile I had ever seen. Her soft, full lips split to reveal magnificently aligned teeth, all glowing pearly white, as if she was one of the models they use on toothpaste commercials. I thought she was beautiful before, but after seeing that smile I could hardly contain myself. She glanced down, as if embarrassed.

“Sorry,” she said in a low, melodic voice.

Perfect, like everything else about her. The doors had opened at some point, but I don’t recall when. It must have happened when she kicked my foot, but I didn’ t care. All I cared about was that moment, looking into her eyes, exchanging apologies. And then she walked passed me, through the double doors just as they were closing. The warning chime rang one last time, and the subway rattled on.

“Next stop, Kendall/MIT.”