There are over 8 million people in New York City. I once read that if everyone in New York went out on the street at once, we would have to stack up six high just to fit. And yet you . . . you.
Since last summer, when I first say you at the 86th Street subway stop, I have seen you no less that 15 times. On different trains, in different subway stations, on the street, even at the GAP. How is this possible? When I was in high school, I would plan my day around walking past Trisha Bailey’s locker in hopes of seeing her. We were trapped together in a brick building for eight hours a day, yet I saw her less than I see you.
I first noticed you in the spring of ’04. You were at the 86th Street subway stop, waiting for the train. I immediately observed two things about you. One, you were dressed in prefect business sexual™ attire: knee length skirt, black boots, low cut tank top, but in a pastel color so it’s not too much. Two, you were wearing an unreasonable amount of make-up. I thought nothing of it at the time, but when I saw you there again a few weeks later, I became curious. And you because Clown Face.
I thought once I moved from the neighborhood and started taking the 77th Street local train instead, I would never see you again. But then, not more than a month after the last time I saw you, I board the train at 77th Street and who is sitting in front of me but you! Clown Face! On a different train, on MY train! BUT WHY?! Did you move too? Did you find out that I moved and switch trains to be with me? Are you in love with me, Clown Face?
I know very little about you. I know that you work in a major financial institution, because somewhere around our 7th run-in I noticed the bag you were carrying with the name on it. I know that you have a blue iPod mini. I know that you read the New Yorker. And I know that somewhere down the line, someone from Nassau county showed you how to put on make-up. Which is a shame, because I think underneath those layers you might resemble Jennifer Aniston. But I will never know . . . OR WILL I?
Yesterday, I saw you on the train home from Wall St. We ignored each other, like usual. That coy game we play. But this time, you exited the train at 77th Street with me. YOU DON’T LIVE HERE, CLOWN FACE! WHY DID YOU GET OFF THE TRAIN? Maybe you moved into the neighborhood, maybe you merely wanted to see where I live. I think I gave you the slip at the fruit stand on 3rd Ave. I never looked back. I can’t look back . . .
I fear that at some point in the future you will want our relationship to escalate, Clown Face. I am in a happy, committed relationship. I need you to know that I will not be seduced. I will not bite at your business sexual™ bait. It’s not going to happen, Clown Face! Maybe in another time, in another place, I could have wiped that make-up from your face and we could have been happy together, reading the New Yorker and listening to our iPods. But fate has a weird way of working. And in this city of 8 million, fate made a mistake this time by bringing us together. I’m sorry, Clown Face.