claustrophobic. The train rumbles onward, the wheels screeching and sparking beneath us before smoothing out. The woman doesn’t press me on my choice of reading matter, but she does press closer and finally can’t help herself from asking another question. “You work downtown?”
I peer at her from behind my rimless oval specs, wondering if my annoyance shows. This is why I take the Metra train to work and walk a mile to my office every morning instead of the ‘L.’ The Metra is a little more civilized. The kooks on the ‘L’ were amusing when I was younger, but now they’re just tiresome.
Especially this one.
“I work downtown.” I press the button at the bottom of my Kindle to power it down and give her what has to be the world’s most sarcastic and put-upon smile. “And how about you? Downtown?”
She doesn’t catch on to the annoyance in my smile, apparently, because she smiles back with nicotine-yellowed teeth. “Oh yeah. I sell shoes at Macy’s in Water Tower Place.”
Part of me wants to just tell her to leave me alone, that I only have about fifteen minutes left until we get to my stop and I’d like to just read until then, but then guilt stabs at me. Guilt and I are like old friends, with me since I was baptized in the Catholic Church. Sometimes, though, Mr. Guilt tells me the right thing to do.
The right thing to do is cut this poor woman a break. I give her another smile, this one genuine, even though I’m not really feeling it. And then I glance down at her shoes and speak with as much animation and interest as I can muster. “You must have gotten those there.” I point to her black patent-leather spikes. “What are those? Jimmy Choo?”
She laughs. “Oh, sweetie, I can’t afford Jimmy Choos!” She leans close and whispers, “I picked these up at T.J.Maxx. Clearance, only twenty bucks!” She snorts, and I am reminded of Lily Tomlin’s old telephone operator character, Ernestine.
“Well, you’d never know. They’re very nice.”
She grins and stares deeply into my eyes. Oh shit, is she trying to flirt with me ? I want to burst into laughter.
We’re quiet for a while, but I know her stop, Chicago Avenue, is coming up. So does she, obviously, because she turns to me and, after taking a deep breath, says hurriedly, “Since we both work downtown, maybe you and me could get together for lunch sometime? Or maybe a drink after?” The hope on her face clutches at my heart. Something tells me this isn’t her first time making this attempt. I am almost tempted to agree to a date, but then I know dragging things out would be even crueler than just telling her the truth.
“I don’t think so. You’re awfully nice, but I’m, um, involved.”
“Of course you are.” She pats my hand. “All the good ones are taken.” She snorts again as the train pulls into Clark and Diversey. “Or gay!” she shrieks, laughing more.
I smile. “Yeah, I’m that too.”
She goes pale under her foundation. “Oh, you are? I’m sorry! I didn’t mean nothin’ by it.”
She looks me up and down, and I imagine what she sees—a man, fifty-something, well kept and trim, dressed in crisp khakis and a pale blue oxford cloth shirt with a button-down collar. His hair is buzzed close on the sides and in the back—his way of hiding the gray—and receding on top. He likes to think the man has a nice smile that complements his green eyes.
“You’d never know it.”
I’m tempted to offer some smartass comeback, like asking her what about me didn’t seem gay. No lisp? No limp wrist? I knew about Jimmy Choo, for Christ’s sake. Wasn’t that enough?
“Well, thank you. I try and butch it up on the train, you know. One never can be too careful with the riffraff on the ‘L.’”
“You’re smart.” She sighs. “Well, you have a nice day.”
“You too.”
I feel a sense of relief as she gets up to stand and wait by the door. She’s replaced immediately by a fair-haired teenage boy in a
I peer at her from behind my rimless oval specs, wondering if my annoyance shows. This is why I take the Metra train to work and walk a mile to my office every morning instead of the ‘L.’ The Metra is a little more civilized. The kooks on the ‘L’ were amusing when I was younger, but now they’re just tiresome.
Especially this one.
“I work downtown.” I press the button at the bottom of my Kindle to power it down and give her what has to be the world’s most sarcastic and put-upon smile. “And how about you? Downtown?”
She doesn’t catch on to the annoyance in my smile, apparently, because she smiles back with nicotine-yellowed teeth. “Oh yeah. I sell shoes at Macy’s in Water Tower Place.”
Part of me wants to just tell her to leave me alone, that I only have about fifteen minutes left until we get to my stop and I’d like to just read until then, but then guilt stabs at me. Guilt and I are like old friends, with me since I was baptized in the Catholic Church. Sometimes, though, Mr. Guilt tells me the right thing to do.
The right thing to do is cut this poor woman a break. I give her another smile, this one genuine, even though I’m not really feeling it. And then I glance down at her shoes and speak with as much animation and interest as I can muster. “You must have gotten those there.” I point to her black patent-leather spikes. “What are those? Jimmy Choo?”
She laughs. “Oh, sweetie, I can’t afford Jimmy Choos!” She leans close and whispers, “I picked these up at T.J.Maxx. Clearance, only twenty bucks!” She snorts, and I am reminded of Lily Tomlin’s old telephone operator character, Ernestine.
“Well, you’d never know. They’re very nice.”
She grins and stares deeply into my eyes. Oh shit, is she trying to flirt with me ? I want to burst into laughter.
We’re quiet for a while, but I know her stop, Chicago Avenue, is coming up. So does she, obviously, because she turns to me and, after taking a deep breath, says hurriedly, “Since we both work downtown, maybe you and me could get together for lunch sometime? Or maybe a drink after?” The hope on her face clutches at my heart. Something tells me this isn’t her first time making this attempt. I am almost tempted to agree to a date, but then I know dragging things out would be even crueler than just telling her the truth.
“I don’t think so. You’re awfully nice, but I’m, um, involved.”
“Of course you are.” She pats my hand. “All the good ones are taken.” She snorts again as the train pulls into Clark and Diversey. “Or gay!” she shrieks, laughing more.
I smile. “Yeah, I’m that too.”
She goes pale under her foundation. “Oh, you are? I’m sorry! I didn’t mean nothin’ by it.”
She looks me up and down, and I imagine what she sees—a man, fifty-something, well kept and trim, dressed in crisp khakis and a pale blue oxford cloth shirt with a button-down collar. His hair is buzzed close on the sides and in the back—his way of hiding the gray—and receding on top. He likes to think the man has a nice smile that complements his green eyes.
“You’d never know it.”
I’m tempted to offer some smartass comeback, like asking her what about me didn’t seem gay. No lisp? No limp wrist? I knew about Jimmy Choo, for Christ’s sake. Wasn’t that enough?
“Well, thank you. I try and butch it up on the train, you know. One never can be too careful with the riffraff on the ‘L.’”
“You’re smart.” She sighs. “Well, you have a nice day.”
“You too.”
I feel a sense of relief as she gets up to stand and wait by the door. She’s replaced immediately by a fair-haired teenage boy in a
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