Man on the Metro: A Valentine’s Day Love Story
& Craigslist Missed Connection
MONTREAL — I met you last Sunday at 5:45 a.m. on the green line, somewhere between Saint-Laurent and Verdun. You were seated four rows up from me, wearing intentionally ripped jeans and a shirt that read FBI: Female Body Inspector. You had a fake diamond stud in your left ear, and dark skin. Your fade was the haircut of a protagonist in Snooki’s wet dream.
I (in my 20s) was wearing tired green eyes, smudged makeup, and a polka dot dress covered in the sweat of a night well spent. The grimace I had on said, “Leave me alone.” You approached me anyway.
You pulled out two CDs, which is admittedly nicer than what most men “pull out” for me on the subway. Each album cover was adorned with a picture of your face — a close-up shot of that same gap-toothed grin and cubic zirconia encrusted earlobe. It was a selfie. I wasn’t trying to be rude when I giggled and declined, I just don’t usually buy CDs from boys the first time I meet them. I don’t have a CD player.
After staring deep into my eyes for a quarter of a second, you subtly began to make your romantic intentions known.
“Damn. You fine, girl.”
“Do you have a boyfriend?”
“Do you like chocolate?”
I sternly told you to “Go away” and you respectfully obeyed. Either that, or we had reached your stop. Probably the latter.
But, so I learned, you’re the romantic type. You wouldn’t go without some grand parting gesture — one last attempt to woo me, a passion-fueled goodbye. Thus, you called out to me from the train doors.
“What’s your name, shawty?” you shouted.
“I want to add you on Facebook.”
“Do you have a twin sister?”
I’m afraid you’ll spend the rest of eternity struggling for closure. I couldn’t give you a straight answer on account of the stifling state of shock that overwhelmed me at the sight of you wedged between two oscillating train doors. You never once flinched as the doors continued to open and close, open and close directly against the sides of your body. You just flashed me that gap-toothed grin.
As security held you back, the doors finally fastened, with you on the other side of them. And when the train began to pull away, I noticed your right hand rising up, its middle and ring fingers shifting to form a v-shape that met the top corners of your upper lip. Your tongue, which protruded from between your fingers, flailed sensually, while you chased the train, trailing behind us at full speed for as long as you possibly could.
I looked contemplatively through the window back at you. Had someone once given you the world’s worst advice? “The key to a girl’s heart,” the person had said, “is symbolic cunnilingus from a stranger on a subway.” Or, perhaps, you’d come to that conclusion on your own — a sound series of logical deductions disrupted by one detrimental misthought.
- Girls like to feel sexually desired.
- Girls use public transportation.
- Therefore, girls want to symbolically receive cunnilingus from strange men on public transit.
I imagined you in the shower, suddenly exclaiming “Eureka! I’ve got it! The key to a girl’s heart!” I imagined you waking up in the middle of the night and digging through your nightstand drawer for a pen and notepad to ensure you wouldn’t soon forget your brilliant realization.
I imagined, I imagined again, and I still haven’t stopped imagining.
Contact me if any of this sounds familiar and you think it might be you. I don’t have a twin sister, but I hope that doesn’t deter you from wanting to reunite. If you’re free (and I have a feeling you are), let’s meet up on Valentine’s Day: same time, same train — I’d love to throw you in front of it.
