Anxious Man

A short piece going through the mind of a city dweller.

            Have I ever mentioned how much I hate this city?  It’s the only place I’ve ever lived and I’m sick of it.  If I ever moved away I’d definitely miss it.  I’m sick of it; it irritates me to no end, in a way to which I am far too accustomed.  I wish I were passionate enough to hate it with a burning righteous fury but the best I can do is an exhausted, frustrated disappointment, like a girlfriend who keeps letting you down.  I haven’t seen anyone since Jessica.  I have no time to meet anyone new, and girls I know want nothing to do with me.  I’m always working to pay rent and neat, no time for anything fun.  To get someone in this city, you have to already have her.

            This girl is standing across the counter while I wait for her burger to finish cooking so I can serve her.  She drums her fingers on the surface in a jittery, nervous way, not with irritation.  I’d be irritated if I were her but it’s a slow night.  Her eyes dart around, avoiding me, but occasionally our glances meet and she smiles wearily and I think maybe I can read her mind, if I try.  She must know I’m staring, how could she not?  How could I not stare?  She’s gorgeous: the most beautiful thing I have ever seen in this stupid restaurant.  I don’t know if I have ever seen anyone so beautiful anywhere, let alone ordering a double cheeseburger.  Her eyes are wide and deep and dark brown, innocent and kind and understanding.  Her lips look big and soft, her hair falls in spirals along the sides of her face, a chestnut brown to match her skin.  Black girls, that is African-American girls, are the most beautiful to me of all types of girls.  I wonder if, coming from a little white guy like me, that’s racist.  But how can it be racist if I’m saying I like them?  It’s all the other girls’ problem if they’re not as pretty.  I have never dated one, a black girl.

            Her breasts, if I’m being honest, are what I’m really looking at, both because of their size and shape, and because her great cleavage seems to be looking back at me.  It is inconsistent with the chilly November weather.  She is wearing a scarf and a jacket.  Every second that her food doesn’t arrive, I am more certain she can read my mind, and I try to force myself to stop looking at those breasts.

            At the end of my shift, I hurry down to the subway, shouldering my way past some couples and some old folks.  As I get to the turnstile, I rifle through my wallet for my last token.  After a moment, I realize I gave it to a beggar on the street that morning, thinking it would give me good karma.  That was stupid.  I was out of change and had to give him something because I had already stopped and I figured if I didn’t give him anything nobody else would.  Not everyone is as considerate as I am.  So I gave him the token because the homeless have places to be too, don’t they?  And I know he can’t spend it on booze.  And because of this charity I have to wait in a line 6 people deep in order to pay my fare.  It’s unfair, is what it is.  I’m in a hurry to get home, but I don’t know what I’ll do when I get there.

            I get down to the platform in time to see a train pull away, adding 5 or 6 minutes onto my trip.  In anger I kick the air, and then hope nobody saw me make my statement.

            By the time the next train arrives I am standing next to two older ladies who converse loudly, inconsiderately, in Russian or some other language I can’t understand.  We get on and they sit near me and I can’t tune them out so I try to decode exactly what they are saying.  I suspect they are talking about me.

            In the corner sits a woman with tan, light brown skin and bleach blonde hair tied back in a bun.  She is the most beautiful woman I have ever seen on the subway, or perhaps anywhere in this city.  A latina, I think.  I have always thought latinas had something special about them that put them above all other types of women.  I have never dated one.  She might actually be Italian.  They’re good, too.

            My eyes are transfixed on her, until I am sure she has noticed me.  She glances my way, smiles politely, and averts her eyes.  Embarrassed, I stare at the ground until the next stop, where a man gets on.  She greets him.  At first I think maybe they are a couple but they seem to be old friends who have run into each other unexpectedly; I can’t hear exactly what they are saying to each other because they speak quietly, and the subway is roaring along the tracks and the Russian ladies are louder than anything.  I imagine him getting off at the next stop and she staying until the same stop as me.  And I can’t imagine what might happen other than she and I go our separate ways and I go home disappointed, having just thought of the perfect line I should have use as I get in the door to my apartment.  After two stops, they get off together.

            That leaves me with the Russian ladies, and sitting across from them is a uniquely gorgeous Asian girl in a yellow plaid scarf…