and Around
Red hair, pale as a ghost, black tights and denim skirt, she coyly bites the corner of a disposable camera as her boyfriend walks into position in front of the Tower. He pulls a toque over his head and shoves his hands deep in his pockets. She smiles and brings the camera up to her eyes. No, not quite—she walks up to him, tucks his hair behind his ear, smiles again and steps back. Click.
The girl with the boyish haircut sits across a boy’s lap, her back to the window of the train. A tuft of hair peeks out the top of the boy’s collar. She drapes her arms around his shoulders, her face buried in his dark, curly hair, whispering into his ear.
Two men with matching woven leather handbags speak to each other in German, casually discussing a friend’s business deal. As the train pulls out into daylight, the dark-haired one puts on a pair of Anne Wintour-esque sunglasses before reaching over and bringing his hand over to his partner’s, their ring and pinky fingers loosely tangling. The blonde one smiles, almost imperceptibly. Neither looks at the other, instead stare out opposite windows.
Behind me, a boy shares an earbud with the girl sitting next to him, the two of them stretched out lengthwise on the facing benches. She plays with his iPhone, amazed at the technology. A bit too amazed, perhaps: her compliments on his taste are fulsome, affected. He in return plays song after song, asking her each time if she’s heard this yet, before launching into descriptions how this particular track is fucking awesome. It isn’t apparent if they quite understand what is going on—their efforts are loud, strident, lacking finesse.
A middle-aged woman sits alone, reading a newspaper. She periodically looks up, above the line of her glasses into some indefinite space over the line of empty seats. For a moment, she looks incredibly sad and tired. The train stops, and she looks out the window. It’s hard to suppress the desire to give her a hug right there. We lurch forward again, and she returns to her reading.
Despite being taller than most everybody there, the pale girl with the brown eyes pushes her way to the front of the crowd, camera in hand, in order to get a better view of the breakdancers. She cheers and claps and moves to the music, her smile wide and genuine. She’s beautiful.
At the cashier of the bookstore, an American girl leans over the counter while she makes cloying conversation with the hip, bespectacled English boy working the register. His wavering interest is palpable, and she is clearly not there to make any purchases, at least not of the literary variety, but she stays put, blocking the line. Her friends walk in, greeting her heartily, and inform her that the party is all here, ready to leave when she is. She asks for a couple more minutes, and returns to talking to the boy. She wears her tight jeans rolled up, exposing the slim calves of her crossed legs. She is attractive, perhaps, but her features are blunt, coarse, and the increasing escalation of her attentions is matched only by his growing interest in stacking books, counting cash, or anything other than answering her personal questions. He turns to me with a relieved smile, and takes the books from my hand as I approach the register. I look down into my bag, and pull out my business card. While he rings up my purchase, I quickly scribble a note on the card. Her friends return again, and tell her they’re leaving. She tells them she’ll catch up, and turns back toward the boy. I sign for my purchases, and turning to leave, I slip my card under her hand on the counter and walk out. I hope she took my scribbled, unsolicited advice to heart: “Just ask him out already.”
On the steps of the museum, she stands three steps up from him and rests her outstretched arms on his shoulders. His hands hold her by the hips and draw her closer. Her thick-framed glasses bump into his with a soft click as they lean forehead to forehead and kiss. They hold this position for a good long while, oblivious to the world, until she takes him by the hand and they walk in.
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