Her hair is up, tied up somehow, I can’t really describe it, but it’s like a little girl’s might be. It’s this kind of muddy, indecisive shade of brown. White wires come down from the earbuds she’s got in her ears, her head bobs, her body sways back and forth, lightly, completely asynchronously with the rhythemless flute music drifting across the subway platform. Her coat is white even though it’s the first day of fall and she has a scarf tossed around her neck, its white and black and fuzzy, like TV static. She looks down at her feet, her toes pointed inward and maybe wriggling a bit in her black on black canvass shoes.
Another time I fell in love on the subway, I was coming up out of the station in a part of town I only visit when I need to buy something for the apartment. A girl was walking ahead of me, there was a certain something to her stride, and again those black canvass shoes. It was still warm then, or I should say, much warmer than it is now, and her skin shimmered slightly. On the street we went different directions. I turned around to watch her round the corner. How pleasant that she’d done the same.
Back on the platform, the girl in the white coat she steps forward, peering down the track, checking for the train. It’s coming, and then it arrives. I loose sight of her. I write about her from memory.