My mother commented, more than once, that I would become friends with anyone I end up sitting next to. She said it like it was a bad thing. A negative character trait. I never understood why. Was I supposed to befriend someone in the next room? One the next school bus? It’s true. The friends I’ve made more often then not end up being whoever the hell I sit next to. In school this was almost bettable. 

But that reverie is for another time. Today was the day I finally sat next to her on the subway. The quiet, beautiful woman whose demeanor has switched over the past months from upbeat and active to sulky and even pouting. It being Friday I let myself believe she would not be present. I had no memory of seeing her on the train this day of the week. But she was there. Unfortunately, I was only aware of her presence right next to me just moments before she exited. It was a situation of tight seating, where I took an in-between seat others would have passed on, and in so doing it felt necessary to protrude somewhat from the seat so as not to discomfort the people on either side of me. For this I failed to even catch a glimpse of her, and only caught wind of the man next to me on account of his occasional movements and conspicuities. She, it would appear, was silent and motionless, which would be in character with how she’s appeared to me in recent months.

There was my chance to befriend her simply for sitting next to me. I could have bragged about my recent text-message victory, in which I texted the MTA’s newish number to report an issue with subway car #9393. There was no A/C and people were sweltering. She was on that car the day I reported it. I moved up to the next car, leaving her in the heat. My ride is a lot longer than hers so it was not for nothing that I got out of the sweaty car in favor of the non-sweaty one.

I could have started a conversation over this incident, as there was a shred of common ground to connect us. Maybe there will be fresh opportunity again but for now there is none and she is gone, I am gone.

I am back at work. I continue to spy on the people across the street whose windows are left wide open for anyone to assay. Last week I tuned in just as a shirtless dude threw open all his curtains before backing away into the darkness. I am not a voyeur, in fact I find voyeuristic materials, even those that merely purport to be so, to be genuinely icky. But there is something liminal about lives laid out to dry. I check in with a spirit of making sure everyone is OK, everyone is still there and not disappearing. WHich is what I should be doing right now. Poof. Foop.