Today she wore tight pants and a somewhat loose-fitting shirt. She looked positively cleaned up. I wonder why. She did not notice when I boarded the train, and I was unable to get a seat directly across from her as before. But when the train cleared a bit she saw that I was sitting 4 seats to her right and the look of recognition was unmistakable. It was not a perturbed look. But still, no words. No whispers. No smiles. Not yet. Not ever? Who can know. I can say that the mere possibility of a new person in my life is enough to raise my internal champagne glasses. It makes me want to be on time. I am, in fact, allergic to being late. But I detected in my gait this AM that I wanted to be on time for her. How stupid is this? I’m a growed-ass man chasing after someone, or thinking about chasing after someone with zero knowledge of who or what I could be dealing with. She works and is on time. She’s good-looking and has a certainty about her, a confidence. When she dresses in her cut-up jeans and barely-on shirt I have carnal thoughts. What man wouldn’t? Most men, you say? Possibly. That lowest common denominator gut level instinct to mentally undress a desired member of the opposite sex doesn’t get documented much, I wouldn’t think. Too primal to even be acknowledged to one’s self or even one’s closest stranger. Strangers. A few weeks ago a flower salesman spotted me gazing at the bare back and pantsed ass of a thin 50-something Asian woman. God she was glorious in form. I looked,  stayed for several seconds, from another corner of another eye I caught the growing smile of the flower dude who saw how I had stopped in my steps and evaporated into reverie. The moment lasted less than 5 seconds. Nothing had to be said. Am I a pig? Some would say yes. Others wouldn’t know a pig from a pot-stirrer.