I went through the regular weekday morning motions: leaving my apartment a few minutes later than planned, moving my Wisconsin feet at a New York pace, trying to catch the walk light at the big intersection, descending into my subway stop through a grimy staircase where the faint scent of urine lingers permanently.
I swipe my card and move through the turnstile in a single, fluid motion, practiced daily these past six years. I head toward my preferred seat on one of the few wooden benches along the platform, the seat that lies at the perfect spot so that when the train arrives I can walk straight forward without moving so much as an inch to either side and stand directly to the left of the train's open door. From this spot, I can enter the train right away and, hopefully, get a seat for my commute. Today, though, my seat is taken by a man whose fetor announced his presence many yards away. He lies sleeping across the bench, curled up into as little space as a tall man could possibly occupy. His tattered clothing as well as his hair hangs from him in a disheveled mess; he seems a man thick with dirt but thin with wear. Like the rest of the commuters on the platform, I do my best to ignore him, as if by not bringing attention to him I am giving him some modicum of privacy. It's gracious, really. I stand nearby, waiting for my train, and others walk by with eyes downcast or straight ahead in measured stride. Unaffected. But one little girl stops.
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Seven years ago I sent a Facebook message to a stranger:
"Okay, this is going to seem incredibly forward and possibly a bit bizarre, but I hope you'll continue reading. . ." Throughout the month of January 2012 I had been seeing a guy I met online, a graduate student studying astrophysics or some such science in Chicago. He was nice enough, but I could tell after a few weeks that it wasn't going to work out. When I told this to a friend over email she responded "Well that's too bad. BUT there are plenty of other fish in the sea! You should really check out this guy, . . ." So I did. I checked out his Facebook. I checked out his JDate profile. I Googled him. My 21st-century-pre-date-research (which is definitely not the same as stalking) revealed he was smart, goofy, and almost definitely not a serial killer, so I sent him a Facebook message. Of course, I knew that when he checked Facebook only the first line or so of the message would appear before he clicked on it to read more, and I needed to make sure he wouldn't immediately dismiss my single attempt to contact him. He responded two days later, presumably after doing his own 21st-century-pre-date-research (definitely not stalking). Apparently what he saw (or didn't see) was enough to convince him because, as he wrote in his response, "It's a good thing I kept reading because that opening line really made it seem like the rest of the message was going to be asking me to donate money for a lost prince of Nigeria." |
AuthorNashira is a music teacher and proud Small-Town Jew who, after surthriving six years in Brooklyn for her husband's surgical residency, is finally back in Wisconsin where she belongs! At least until the end of the two-year surgical fellowship, that is. It's a wild ride, and she's ready to tell you all about it! Archives
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