"Is this seat taken?" she asks. I glance up from the book I am reading ready to dismiss out of hand. But the smile on her face and the twinkle in her eye stops me. Luscious, the young lady is, but more than that, there was someone home behind those beautiful dark almond eyes.
She doesn't give me time to answer; which is a good thing since my mouth has gone as dry as a desert wind, before sliding her shapely form into the seat next to mine just as the train rumbles its way out of the station. The fragrance pulsing off of her body is spicy and exotic...something an Indian princess would wear next to her skin. I am wrapped in a cloud of fragrance, her scent inviting my mind to wonder what it would be like to kiss the nape of her chignon exposed neck. A thought as disturbing as the sudden vibration on my elbow.
I glance at her, arching an eyebrow, as she is sliding delicate French manicured fingertips into the breast pocket of her form fitting blazer. She removes a tiny phone from her pocket. "Sorry," she smiles, turning away on the seat as much as she can to answer her call.
While she is murmuring incomprehensible responses into her phone, I attempt to turn my attention back to the book I was reading, only to find that my concentration has been shattered. Instead of following the words on the pages before me, my mind has shifted entirely to her and is now focused on trying to follow her words. Her voice is rich and melodious. Her skin is golden; glowing in incandescent invitation and radiating warmth in the early morning light. She seems a flower, kissed by the morning sun, and magically transported aboard the midtown train. The physical attraction I feel for her is something that I haven't felt in years. Not since I married my husband. Maybe not since college. But now here I am, on the train of all places, and I feel an attraction so keen for this woman that I can feel my body responding to her presence.
The next station is announced over the P.A. system, and I am relieved. Only two more stops to go before I can get off this ride. Only two more stops to control the urge to touch her. To lean in closer and smell her. To kiss her. 'What the hell is wrong with me' I wonder, 'I don't even know this woman.' And it comes right down to that, doesn't it? I don't know her, not even her name, so my response to her is purely physical. It is nothing more than an appreciation for her unmistakable beauty. With that realization, I am once again able to focus on the words on the page.
I started taking the train last year when my car broke down. The shop had to order the parts from the manufacturer to fix it, and I was without transportation for almost a month. Since Matthew works on the other side of town, we either would have had to leave home at the crack of dawn or I had to learn to take the train. Since I am not a morning person, I opted for the train in order to get that extra hour of sleep.
After about a week, I realized that I rather liked it. Sure there was the hustle and bustle of all of those people, but if you shut them out, it was like having free time. I learned that I could read all of those books I never had time to read if I took the train to and from work, plus I didn't have to fight the morning traffic or get pissed off when I found someone parked in my spot. The money I save on gas is just an added bonus, extra money for shoes. Matt still complains about how much I spend on that though, which of course I find uproariously funny. It is not as if we are poor, but men will be men, and will never understand our fascination with footwear; no matter how often we try to explain it.
Before I know it, my station is announced and I begin to gather my things together. "Oh, are you getting off here too?" she asks.
'You've got to be kidding me,' I think to myself, but I answer her as politely as I can. "Yes, I am. Why, is there something I can help you with?" I ask her, meeting her gaze and smiling slightly.
"Well, I was just wondering if you could tell me...once I leave the station, do I turn right or left to get to Century Towers?"
I feel my eyebrows draw down a bit at the center. My building. She must be new, because one does not easily forget a woman this stunning and if I had seen her before I would have remembered. She is waiting for my response, looking rather expectant, and I suppose she thinks that I am thinking about my response. Having no way of knowing that I could get to Century Towers in my sleep from the train station, she has mistaken my frown for concentration and not for the what the hell it truly is.
"Umm, you turn right," I finally say, standing. She follows suit, and I am again graced with the sight of her lithe body in its mini-skirted business suit. Swallowing hard as I avert my eyes I say again, "Turn right, and it is about a block and a half over."
"Thanks," she says smiling and rushing off. "Have a nice day," she says over her shoulder, before I have a chance to tell her that I am going that way myself.
As I make my way off the train I have a sudden, chilling thought. My assistant Karen's maternity leave starts this morning. But no, fate could not be so unkind, I think to myself as I imagine what it would be like to work so closely with a woman that lovely. Karen is a nice woman, but she's plain. And she's boring. And she doesn't smell like anything. Not to say that she smells badly, because she doesn't. I could never tolerate that. She just never smells like anything more than fabric softener and soap. But she's not a distraction. She was perfect for the job. Ms. Indian Princess, as I'd dubbed her in my head, would be distraction of gargantuan proportions. Not to mention the fact that all anyone would have to do was look at me looking at her to know. It was tantamount to opening my closet door at work.
I laugh a little to myself at that thought. I've always thought that being gay is easier than being bi. I could be wrong. But still, when you're gay, you come out once and that's it. Over and done with. Whoever is okay with it is okay with it, whoever is not is out of your life, and that is the end of it. Not to say that losing people you love over something like that isn't painful. It's just that it is only done once, and then you get to live out and proud. When you're bisexual, you have to come out everyfreakingtime you meet someone new. And then there are the arguments about being confused. I decided a long time ago that the work place was not the place to have these discussions. You never know what kind of response you're going to get, and I prefer to keep my private life private.
The rich aroma of brewing coffee alerts me to my arrival at my pre-office destination. I open the door to my favorite café, and at once feel my eyes closing as I inhale deeply. I've never been able to decide what I like more, the smell or the taste of freshly brewed coffee.
"Good morning, Ms. Beaumont," said Mitch, the owner of Blue Mountain Coffee, in his rich southern drawl.
"Morning, Mitch," I smile brightly at him. I've been coming to this coffee shop for the last six years. I have never been able to get him to call me Johann. Or even Ms. Johann. Never, not once; he says it just doesn't feel right to him. Although he absolutely insists that anyone and everyone that walks through the door of his café call him by his first name. It must be an old southern thing. Charming to be sure.
"You havin' your usual this mornin'?"
"Yes, I am. But I need a little extra something today. Something sweet."
