scumbag who got their
not-so-happy ending, her mind wandered to Bruce. He didn’t only share Batman’s
real name, he’d also swooped in when she needed him, then disappeared into the
bustle of the city like the Dark Knight himself. She hadn’t seen him on the
subway since their first encounter a few days before. Not because he didn’t
ride the subway, she concluded. But because she hadn’t needed him.
She didn’t need him to rescue her. Not in the
damsel-in-distress kind of way. But she did long for rescue from her daily
life. For some sanity and order in her world. Would his presence bring that?
Could anyone bring her that?
Every day she scanned the faces in the crowded cars, hoping
to catch a glimpse of Bruce’s imperfect face and swarthy bulk. Even if he never
spoke to her again, it didn’t matter. She could edit that part in. If only she
could see him, verify his existence and prove he had spoken to her. Touched
her. Prove he wasn’t a figment of her mental red pen.
She flipped the newspaper page. Some underage petty thieves
got away almost scot-free. First offense. Rich parents. Good lawyers. Only six
weeks in juvenile detention.
She tapped her pen against her lips. Sounded familiar. Like
a certain band of high school thugs who rode the subway. Thugs who were nowhere
to be seen the past couple of days.
She scratched her pen across the page, sent the future crime
bosses to adult prison, and made their parents pay fines. Hefty bloody fines.
“Yeah, get ‘em before they go rogue for good.”
She froze at the sound of the throaty bass, shifted her eyes
until they focused on the black pants and shiny, fancy shoes. She drew her
brows together. Those shoes didn’t match the rest of him. She raised her eyes.
It was Bruce, all right.
He sat beside her, nudged her with his shoulder. “You missed
one.”
“I — I’m sorry?”
He pointed at the page. “Shouldn’t that be ‘further?’”
She smiled. He was so cute, in a rough-and-tumble,
don’t-mess-with-me kind of way. And so clueless. “It’s distance, so it’s
‘farther.’ If it was about time, or doing something to a greater degree, then
it would be ‘further.’”
He nodded. “Yeah, that’s why I have an assistant. She can
fix all that stuff.” He bit his top lip with his bottom teeth. “Are you an
editor? Like, for a living I mean?”
She opened her mouth to say no, just a proofreader, but
stopped. She had one client. A real one. She was an editor now, damn it. “Yes.
Yes, I am. How about you? Assistants and fancy shoes? I figured you for more an
outdoorsy type. Fireman maybe.”
“Fireman was the dream. Or policeman. But then, you know, I
hit puberty and all.” His laugh filled the subway car. “I worked construction
for years, started as a labourer when I was just a kid in high school. Worked
my way up the ladder, so to speak. Now I’m construction management. Traded in
my steel toes for wing tips, my safety vest for a suit jacket. Not bad for a guy
who barely scraped his way through high school and doesn’t know when farther is
further. Or further is farther.”
His smile was enormous. And the ease with which he threw it
around enviable. She normally hid her smile behind her hand, behind a book. Or
behind her mouth, more often smiling on the inside, unwilling to share her
happiness, what little of it there was, with the big, ugly world. But his smile
wasn’t a shield. It wasn’t a salve to be thinly spread or meted out in measured
doses. It was just him. No pretense. No shame. No fear.
What did that feel like?
“So who do you edit? Any famous authors? Stephen King maybe?
You do have a flair for gruesome justice.”
Her cheeks burned. “I freelance. Only one client so far. An
independent author.”
“Freelance? You just ride the train for fun? Feed your
desperate need for other people’s B.O. and the less-than-gentle nudging of
asshole high school bullies?”
“I work as a proofreader for a publishing house. I
not-so-happy ending, her mind wandered to Bruce. He didn’t only share Batman’s
real name, he’d also swooped in when she needed him, then disappeared into the
bustle of the city like the Dark Knight himself. She hadn’t seen him on the
subway since their first encounter a few days before. Not because he didn’t
ride the subway, she concluded. But because she hadn’t needed him.
She didn’t need him to rescue her. Not in the
damsel-in-distress kind of way. But she did long for rescue from her daily
life. For some sanity and order in her world. Would his presence bring that?
Could anyone bring her that?
Every day she scanned the faces in the crowded cars, hoping
to catch a glimpse of Bruce’s imperfect face and swarthy bulk. Even if he never
spoke to her again, it didn’t matter. She could edit that part in. If only she
could see him, verify his existence and prove he had spoken to her. Touched
her. Prove he wasn’t a figment of her mental red pen.
She flipped the newspaper page. Some underage petty thieves
got away almost scot-free. First offense. Rich parents. Good lawyers. Only six
weeks in juvenile detention.
She tapped her pen against her lips. Sounded familiar. Like
a certain band of high school thugs who rode the subway. Thugs who were nowhere
to be seen the past couple of days.
She scratched her pen across the page, sent the future crime
bosses to adult prison, and made their parents pay fines. Hefty bloody fines.
“Yeah, get ‘em before they go rogue for good.”
She froze at the sound of the throaty bass, shifted her eyes
until they focused on the black pants and shiny, fancy shoes. She drew her
brows together. Those shoes didn’t match the rest of him. She raised her eyes.
It was Bruce, all right.
He sat beside her, nudged her with his shoulder. “You missed
one.”
“I — I’m sorry?”
He pointed at the page. “Shouldn’t that be ‘further?’”
She smiled. He was so cute, in a rough-and-tumble,
don’t-mess-with-me kind of way. And so clueless. “It’s distance, so it’s
‘farther.’ If it was about time, or doing something to a greater degree, then
it would be ‘further.’”
He nodded. “Yeah, that’s why I have an assistant. She can
fix all that stuff.” He bit his top lip with his bottom teeth. “Are you an
editor? Like, for a living I mean?”
She opened her mouth to say no, just a proofreader, but
stopped. She had one client. A real one. She was an editor now, damn it. “Yes.
Yes, I am. How about you? Assistants and fancy shoes? I figured you for more an
outdoorsy type. Fireman maybe.”
“Fireman was the dream. Or policeman. But then, you know, I
hit puberty and all.” His laugh filled the subway car. “I worked construction
for years, started as a labourer when I was just a kid in high school. Worked
my way up the ladder, so to speak. Now I’m construction management. Traded in
my steel toes for wing tips, my safety vest for a suit jacket. Not bad for a guy
who barely scraped his way through high school and doesn’t know when farther is
further. Or further is farther.”
His smile was enormous. And the ease with which he threw it
around enviable. She normally hid her smile behind her hand, behind a book. Or
behind her mouth, more often smiling on the inside, unwilling to share her
happiness, what little of it there was, with the big, ugly world. But his smile
wasn’t a shield. It wasn’t a salve to be thinly spread or meted out in measured
doses. It was just him. No pretense. No shame. No fear.
What did that feel like?
“So who do you edit? Any famous authors? Stephen King maybe?
You do have a flair for gruesome justice.”
Her cheeks burned. “I freelance. Only one client so far. An
independent author.”
“Freelance? You just ride the train for fun? Feed your
desperate need for other people’s B.O. and the less-than-gentle nudging of
asshole high school bullies?”
“I work as a proofreader for a publishing house. I
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