the man she's with wraps his arms around her possessively while he shoots dark looks at the stranger. Two college girls give up their seats to stand closer to him. Even the men respond, some with anger and fear, their bodies betraying their desire to get as far away from him as possible.
It's not just his attractiveness or the wealth he oozes with every detail of his bearing and clothing. He doesn't look as if he belongs on a New York subway. In fact, he doesn't look as if he belongs in the beautiful but grungy city of New York at all. He looks like a photoshopped magazine cover come to life, but whether that magazine is GQ or National Geographic is hard to say.
I watch, amazed, as some people on the train scoot away from him even as I'm fighting every instinct in me to move closer, as if he has a force field around him repelling and attracting, pushing and pulling. He's drawing me in without even knowing it. I could be invisible to him, but suddenly he's become the only thing I can focus on.
I work almost mindlessly, letting the art and inspiration flow through me. This has always been my release, my way of connecting to the creative movements of life. I minored in art after my college boyfriend convinced me an art major wouldn't be worth the paper my degree was printed on.
I chose a more practical route and kept my art a side hobby, a passion, a secret obsession at times.
I don't completely regret the choice. It turns out I'm damn good at what I do. Sometimes, I even like it. Though finding joy in anything for the last few years has been hard. Even my art has been more therapy than pleasure.
My fingers are smudged black by the time I complete the portrait. I stare at it for a moment, happy to discover I caught that undefinable energy he has, even while standing still. It's like he's always in motion, almost imperceptible, but it's there. A kind of hunger that drives him. I normally like to put stories to the people I draw on the subway, but he seems to defy my silly storytelling. He's telling his own story with every breath, every movement of his head, every glance at his overpriced watch.
I'm completely lost in my drawing when a baritone voice in a British accent shocks me back to the present.
"That's an incredible likeness."
I look up and into his forest eyes—and I feel suddenly lost in sensations of the wind and earth and tall trees and wilderness. My flash is buzzing like a trapped bee in my gut. I'm flustered, which isn't like me. "Thanks," I manage to mutter, though I can't seem to pull my gaze from his.
"You just drew this? In the last few minutes?" he asks, pushing the reluctant conversation forward as he takes the seat beside me. I move my bag to give him more room, and now our thighs are touching and I suck in air like I'll never have the option again.
I nod in answer to his question, my jaw locked stubbornly in place. Come on, get your shit together. Stop acting like a tongue-tied teenager.
"Yes. It's a hobby of mine while on the subway. To draw people I find interesting in some way." There. A complete sentence. We're making progress.
His lips form a smirky little smile. "And what did you find interesting about me?"
I manage to pull my gaze away from his to glance down at my drawing as I consider his question. Obviously he's smoking hot, but I actually see a lot of sexy men in New York, and yet they generally bore me as subjects for my work. It's not his incredible good looks that drew me in. "You seem juxtaposed against life," I say, as if that makes any sense to anyone but me.
He raises an eyebrow. "Do tell," he says.
Great. Okay, how to explain. "You stand out. Most people fade into the fabric of life. They are colors blended into the whole, washed out by the pulse around them. You…you don't blend in. You stand out in sharp contrast, like you don't entirely belong, or maybe you're the only one who truly does belong and everyone else is just faking it. If…if that makes any sense." My mouth is dry now and I reach desperately into my bag for my water.
I pull it out and suck down half the contents just