For a moment at the end of my train ride home, it seemed to me that the beauteous young woman with the messy, jet black hair and the ruby red lipstick was silently mouthing along, exact word-and-verse, to a song playing in my ears alone, the unlikely "Plan A (Are Sound Version)" by the Dandy Warhols.
It was for a good while after that I still replayed this brief interlude of real magic in my head. My head actually had little to do with it—I was unanalytical, serenely credulous. I just wished that I could call her up and see what time she'd be riding our Blue Line tomorrow. Replay wasn't enough; I wanted to relive this moment. I wanted to put in another short day at work downtown and then hurry home to change before the birthday party of a new friend I really admire. I wanted to finish one great book on the walk to the station and dive right into another standing in the semi-crowded train compartment. And I wanted her to do whatever it is that she does before she runs into me. I wanted us to be the exact same people one more time.
Already, I wonder how long I will remember, without some prompting, that this thing happened at all. How long will I be able to see her painted lips curve around each lyric in their staggering synchronicity? How long will I be able to remember her face before my recall breaks it up into its constituent parts and files them with their closest cousins for long-term storage? Did she have lips like Elizabeth's? Did she have perfect eyes like Jen's? Did she have an air of Dominique to her, a blue nimbus of kept-in-check anxiety and heartache?
It's happening already. She is going away. Sitting in her chair are just things now adding up to no person, some stand-in, some imagined patchwork actress from a silent film. Oh, I am having a bad morning. I am not going to tie up this post. I am just going to go now and listen to our song.
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