On the Subway
I saw you once, a couple of months ago. I still think about you sometimes. Every now and again, I think back to how I saw you that day.
I was on the subway, on my daily commute home. I got on at Wellesley Station, off at Bloor and Yonge, and stood on the platforms waiting to catch the next train on the westbound track. The nearest subway doors pulled up slightly to the left of me and I inched myself closer to it. I waited for the swarm of people to rush off, paying careful attention to step sideways. A gap in the traffic, I stepped forward and seated myself in a corner, facing the interior of the subway car. I noticed a speck of dirt or perhaps decade-old dried gum in the seat next to mine. I contemplated reading on this half-hour transit, knowing full well I usually get carsick if I do so but not caring anyway. I pulled out the book from my grey knapsack and waited for the other passengers to get on. A child ran across my line of vision, screaming nonsensical words, dragged by a mother who had clearly reached her limits. A young boy and girl, dressed in matching green polo shirts, a logo embroidered on the right hand side of each, stood leaning against the opposing doors. A stuffy middle-aged man, black briefcase in hand, sat down across from me. A young lady, in a dark purple blouse, matching skirt, patterned panty hose and high heels sat down in the seat beside mine. I opened up the book in my hands and read the left page. The subway car took off with a jerk.
“Bay Station. The next station is Bay Station.” announced the overhead speakers, followed by static and a heavy clunk.
I reread the left page again, paying attention to the words this time. I felt the headache already coming on. I returned the book back into my knapsack, down by my sneakers, careful so as not to fray the edges and adjusted the straps.
“Bay Station. Arriving at Bay Station.”
The subway car jerked once more and I slid a little off my seat and bumped shoulders with the young lady in the dark purple ensemble next to me. We both pretended not to notice. The subway doors opened once more and I watched a young boy struggling to exit. There were two pudgy middle-aged women standing between him and the doors. “Excuse me. Excuse me please.” his young voice strained out in the sea of voices; a multitude of conversations going on simultaneously in this subway car. The pudgy women still engrossed in their conversation failed to notice him and he turned quickly in the other direction, out of my line of sight. I glanced out the window and that was when I first caught a glimpse of you.
You had a quiet demeanor about you; female, Caucasian, early-twenties, I fathomed. I looked to the person in front of you. Young man, possibly twenty-five, headphones in his ears, black jeans and a heavy blue sweater. I looked back at you; you were just stepping onto the subway car and he no longer blocked my view of you neck down. Black tank top, navy blue shorts, but what stood out to me at once were that scars you had all over your arms and legs. Some looked old and dried up; nearly indiscernible, others fresher and rawer. All of them short and thin; deliberate strokes, I could tell. And you had so many of them. Really, your arms and legs were covered by them. I started counting but was interrupted by an abrupt jerk and an obese man in a grey suit obstructed my view – “St. George Station. The next station is St. George Station.”
I tried to imagine how you might have gotten those scars; tried to imagine your life. I could not. I settled my mind and instead thought of how badass you were for going out in a tank and shorts, knowing full well those scars would be the first thing people would notice about you. I thought you were lovely. And now, months later, I still wonder about you.
I was on the subway, on my daily commute home. I got on at Wellesley Station, off at Bloor and Yonge, and stood on the platforms waiting to catch the next train on the westbound track. The nearest subway doors pulled up slightly to the left of me and I inched myself closer to it. I waited for the swarm of people to rush off, paying careful attention to step sideways. A gap in the traffic, I stepped forward and seated myself in a corner, facing the interior of the subway car. I noticed a speck of dirt or perhaps decade-old dried gum in the seat next to mine. I contemplated reading on this half-hour transit, knowing full well I usually get carsick if I do so but not caring anyway. I pulled out the book from my grey knapsack and waited for the other passengers to get on. A child ran across my line of vision, screaming nonsensical words, dragged by a mother who had clearly reached her limits. A young boy and girl, dressed in matching green polo shirts, a logo embroidered on the right hand side of each, stood leaning against the opposing doors. A stuffy middle-aged man, black briefcase in hand, sat down across from me. A young lady, in a dark purple blouse, matching skirt, patterned panty hose and high heels sat down in the seat beside mine. I opened up the book in my hands and read the left page. The subway car took off with a jerk.
“Bay Station. The next station is Bay Station.” announced the overhead speakers, followed by static and a heavy clunk.
I reread the left page again, paying attention to the words this time. I felt the headache already coming on. I returned the book back into my knapsack, down by my sneakers, careful so as not to fray the edges and adjusted the straps.
“Bay Station. Arriving at Bay Station.”
The subway car jerked once more and I slid a little off my seat and bumped shoulders with the young lady in the dark purple ensemble next to me. We both pretended not to notice. The subway doors opened once more and I watched a young boy struggling to exit. There were two pudgy middle-aged women standing between him and the doors. “Excuse me. Excuse me please.” his young voice strained out in the sea of voices; a multitude of conversations going on simultaneously in this subway car. The pudgy women still engrossed in their conversation failed to notice him and he turned quickly in the other direction, out of my line of sight. I glanced out the window and that was when I first caught a glimpse of you.
You had a quiet demeanor about you; female, Caucasian, early-twenties, I fathomed. I looked to the person in front of you. Young man, possibly twenty-five, headphones in his ears, black jeans and a heavy blue sweater. I looked back at you; you were just stepping onto the subway car and he no longer blocked my view of you neck down. Black tank top, navy blue shorts, but what stood out to me at once were that scars you had all over your arms and legs. Some looked old and dried up; nearly indiscernible, others fresher and rawer. All of them short and thin; deliberate strokes, I could tell. And you had so many of them. Really, your arms and legs were covered by them. I started counting but was interrupted by an abrupt jerk and an obese man in a grey suit obstructed my view – “St. George Station. The next station is St. George Station.”
I tried to imagine how you might have gotten those scars; tried to imagine your life. I could not. I settled my mind and instead thought of how badass you were for going out in a tank and shorts, knowing full well those scars would be the first thing people would notice about you. I thought you were lovely. And now, months later, I still wonder about you.