The Ride Back Home

You wait amidst the bustling crowd, your face turned towards the right in a synchronous display of neck arching that is the custom about 30 seconds before the train arrives. A huge billowing column of air smacks you in the face and you position your feet in an alert, ready-to-board stance.
Train stops, you clamber on with your newly styled crazy-cat lady hair and race a high-school kid/punk to a vacant seat with your name on it. Sure, the lady next to you is oozing on to half of your seat, but as someone who identifies with the burden of excess blubber to a lesser degree, you hold no grudges, and with a gamely attitude try to keep as much of your behind on the seat as you can without toppling over.
You give a small smile as you think about what awaits you at the end of the ride. Old comedy episodes on youtube, reheated food from the day before, and at the end of it all…that comfy bed with the stuffed multicoloured chameleon that doubles as a pillow or even a foot-rest. Sigh, life is good.
As you gaze out the window, you notice a large truck with six pairs of wheels drive by, with another pair hovering in the midsection. Spare tires, you realize. It occurs to you that even you, like the truck, carry your spare tires around your midsection and chuckle inwardly. Then you make a solemn promise never to say this joke out loud in public.
You make the cursory glance to the doors as more people climb in at the next station and freeze. There he is, you think. Your daily dose of tall, handsome man. He’s not even dressed like a tramp. What a bonus. Trying to keep your expression neutral you try not to bounce in your seat when he sits across from you.
You drift into daydreams while trying to pretend that you’re not checking him out. You’re hardly a hormone-driven adolescent with uncontrollable urges. For a moment, you clench your bag tighter and think, maybe not literally. He meets your gaze. You’re struck motionless. You flush guiltily. He’s smiling slightly.
You wish you’d reset your hair. Maybe worn a less conservative shirt. And then, that hideous, ugly wench that calls herself your sense of low self-esteem crawls on to your shoulder and whispers to you, “He’s probably looking at the girl behind you. Oh, and did I mention, you suck!”
You deflate just a wee bit, but before that bitter hag fills your ears with more poison, a tiny flea-sized entity also known as your spirit rears up like the champion it is and smites the venomous wench with the sword of rationality. In a frail voice, your spirit quavers, “Don’t listen to her! Maybe you do look a bit weird right now, but I think you’re cool! On a side note, I think he is looking at you.”
You notice a quizzical light in his eyes. Then you realize that while your will waged an internal battle you likely had a glazed look in your eyes reminiscent of that seen in the eyes of slain pomfret in the seafood section at the supermarket. You clear your throat, and smile tentatively. His smile broadens.
Little cherubs explode with joy in your heart and you can barely hear anything what with the loud trumpeting and cat calls. As the train slows down, he gets up and waits at the doors, winking at you before he gets off.
You gape, mouth slightly ajar in an ultra-cool response. The lady next to you leans over and says, “That boy, he is fine.”
You nod meekly as you watch the pretty boy shuffle along, and out of your life. Oh well, at least you got a wink out of it. Maybe there’s ice cream at the end of the ride home too.