lurching forward

short story about a boy who see's a girl on the subway, and has a pipe dream

There are seven billion people on our planet; seven billion faces, seven billion names, and seven billion stories- and I just happened to find her.  I saw her on the subway each morning, fiddling with the zipper of her jacket as she flipped the pages of her book- rhythmically, as if keeping time with a metronome.  I never got close enough to see the cover, but I liked to think she was reading something good, something thoughtful.

One day the subway came to a sudden stop, lurching us forward, she spilled her pencils along the aisle, and I knelt to pick them up.

She mumbled “Thank you.”

And I said “of course.”

She was beautiful, and she was always scribbling in her notebooks as she read. I think she was an artist- she sometimes had one of those cylindrical canisters one might put a painting into.  I bet she liked Belle and Sebastian, I love Belle and Sebastian. 

I liked the name Sophia, I think she was called Sophia.

I thought she was going to art school to be a painter, and I thought she liked the rain, and I thought she hated apathy, and I thought she loved The Great Gatsby, and I thought she appreciated the works of Kerouac- all in the same way I did.  I created her in my mind, and in my mind she was without flaw.

And I always told myself I would ask her,  I would ask for her name, and a few hours from her day.  From there, it would all fall into place, we would walk through the park, and eat soft pretzels, she liked the kind with cinnamon, just as I did.  We would go see a movie, whichever was showing soonest, because she was spontaneous.  And a few months later we would move in together, it would be a small apartment, just big enough for her painting, and my film, it would be quaint and beautiful, just like her.  And if I were to have a rough day at work, she would make me tea, and rub my back, she would try to sing to me, although she really couldn’t sing, but I didn’t care.  And if she were to have a painting rejected by that art gallery she had so long sought after, I would take her to a nice restaurant, the sort that would cost me a weeks salary, and then we would watch old movies together, and make sure everything was alright. 

I always dreamt of saying ‘hello,’ and sparking our fantastic story.

And then I introduced myself.

Her name was Margaret.