Married and single women. Future flight attendants and strippers and surgeons who’ll get sued for malpractice. They all notice Sara as she momentarily disturbs the air around them. And then, when she’s gone, whatever it was they felt is gone, too, and they resume whatever they were doing.
I continue to watch Sara until she disappears around a bend; then I turn back to the screaming monster who’ll be raped in prison when he’s twenty-four.
Less than a week later, I encounter Sara again on the subway.
I’m heading uptown from Houston Street when she walks into my car and sits down directly across from me.
The subway is one of the few places where I don’t go invisible. Just because no one can see me doesn’t mean they can’t sit on me or bump into me or notice when I experience uncontrollable flatulence.
It happens.
Sure, I could just transport back to my apartment and avoid the whole scene, but the point of observing humans is to observe. I can’t very well do that by avoiding them. Besides, the subway is a great place to reassign fates.
So I just stay visible and hope some crack addict doesn’t pass out on the seat next to me and drool on my man suit.
It’s a little awkward sitting across from Sara like this. I can’t watch her the way I have before or watch the way others react to her without coming across as a little creepy. But unlike the other humans sharing the subway car with us, she’s the only one I can’t read.
The thing about Sara Griffen is that she’s pretty, but not drop-dead gorgeous.
I look away, trying to appear nonchalant, but I feel like I’m acting too casual. When I look back, she’s looking at me. I cross my legs, then uncross them. I clear my throat. I pretend to look at something very interesting on the floor between my feet. Then I look up and she’s still looking at me.
I wonder if I should introduce myself. Or get off at the next stop. Or tell her she’s sitting next to a woman who’s going to contract genital herpes.
Instead, I just smile.
She smiles back.
I’m not exactly sure what it is about Sara Griffen that fascinates me. Maybe it’s the way she seems so at peace whenever I see her. Maybe it’s the effect she seems to have on others. Or maybe it’s because when she smiles, it makes me smile.
We ride this way in silence, watching each other across the three feet of space between us, smiling as if sharing some secret joke. When the train reaches Times Square, Sara gets off, but not without a final glance cast my way. Then the doors shut and I’m left with a bunch of fetishists, philanderers, and telemarketers on their way to the Upper West Side.
The rest of the train ride, I keep thinking about destiny and fate and the number of people on this subway train who need some serious counseling. But mostly I keep thinking about Sara and the places in Manhattan our paths have crossed lately.
The DMV.
Central Park.
The subway.
In a city with more than eight million human inhabitants, I randomly run into the same woman three different times in three different locations in barely more than a week.
I’d say fate was trying to tell me something if I didn’t know better.
CHAPTER 10
During the next couple of weeks, I see Sara again at the Guggenheim, the Central Park Zoo, Le Figaro Café in Greenwich Village, at a Yankees game, and sunbathing on the roof of our building.
Okay, maybe the last one was more like stalking than a chance encounter.
I know she’s really none of my concern and that I should be spending my time taking care of the humans on my own path, but after running into her so many times, I can’t help but be intrigued.
So over the next few weeks, I follow her.
To her job at Halstead Property on Third Avenue, where she brokers condominiums and homes that typically run in the seven figures.
To Central Park, where she eats her lunch at the Bethesda Fountain, then buys a couple of sandwiches from a New York Picnic Company cart and gives them
I continue to watch Sara until she disappears around a bend; then I turn back to the screaming monster who’ll be raped in prison when he’s twenty-four.
Less than a week later, I encounter Sara again on the subway.
I’m heading uptown from Houston Street when she walks into my car and sits down directly across from me.
The subway is one of the few places where I don’t go invisible. Just because no one can see me doesn’t mean they can’t sit on me or bump into me or notice when I experience uncontrollable flatulence.
It happens.
Sure, I could just transport back to my apartment and avoid the whole scene, but the point of observing humans is to observe. I can’t very well do that by avoiding them. Besides, the subway is a great place to reassign fates.
So I just stay visible and hope some crack addict doesn’t pass out on the seat next to me and drool on my man suit.
It’s a little awkward sitting across from Sara like this. I can’t watch her the way I have before or watch the way others react to her without coming across as a little creepy. But unlike the other humans sharing the subway car with us, she’s the only one I can’t read.
The thing about Sara Griffen is that she’s pretty, but not drop-dead gorgeous.
I look away, trying to appear nonchalant, but I feel like I’m acting too casual. When I look back, she’s looking at me. I cross my legs, then uncross them. I clear my throat. I pretend to look at something very interesting on the floor between my feet. Then I look up and she’s still looking at me.
I wonder if I should introduce myself. Or get off at the next stop. Or tell her she’s sitting next to a woman who’s going to contract genital herpes.
Instead, I just smile.
She smiles back.
I’m not exactly sure what it is about Sara Griffen that fascinates me. Maybe it’s the way she seems so at peace whenever I see her. Maybe it’s the effect she seems to have on others. Or maybe it’s because when she smiles, it makes me smile.
We ride this way in silence, watching each other across the three feet of space between us, smiling as if sharing some secret joke. When the train reaches Times Square, Sara gets off, but not without a final glance cast my way. Then the doors shut and I’m left with a bunch of fetishists, philanderers, and telemarketers on their way to the Upper West Side.
The rest of the train ride, I keep thinking about destiny and fate and the number of people on this subway train who need some serious counseling. But mostly I keep thinking about Sara and the places in Manhattan our paths have crossed lately.
The DMV.
Central Park.
The subway.
In a city with more than eight million human inhabitants, I randomly run into the same woman three different times in three different locations in barely more than a week.
I’d say fate was trying to tell me something if I didn’t know better.
CHAPTER 10
During the next couple of weeks, I see Sara again at the Guggenheim, the Central Park Zoo, Le Figaro Café in Greenwich Village, at a Yankees game, and sunbathing on the roof of our building.
Okay, maybe the last one was more like stalking than a chance encounter.
I know she’s really none of my concern and that I should be spending my time taking care of the humans on my own path, but after running into her so many times, I can’t help but be intrigued.
So over the next few weeks, I follow her.
To her job at Halstead Property on Third Avenue, where she brokers condominiums and homes that typically run in the seven figures.
To Central Park, where she eats her lunch at the Bethesda Fountain, then buys a couple of sandwiches from a New York Picnic Company cart and gives them
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