Before Jane can respond, a flashlight beam cuts through the darkness at the city hall end of the tunnel. Jane’s head whips around.
“Hey! Who’s in there?” a gruff voice shouts. “Get the fuck out of the tunnel!”
“Fuckin’ pigs,” Jane says, jumping up and scattering orange peel everywhere. “Run!”
They run back through the tunnel toward Canal Street, Jane stumbling in the rush but never losing her balance on the third rail, and at some point near the fork, they start laughing. Loud, breathless, incredulous, hysterical laughter, filling up the tracks and pulling at August’s lungs as she struggles toward their line. When they reach the Q, there’s a train just pulling out of the station, and Jane takes a running jump and grabs the handle on the back of the last car.
“Come on!” she yells, turning back for August’s hand. August grabs on and lets Jane’s strong grip pull her up.
“Is this our thing?” Jane shouts over the rattle of the train as it carries them toward Brooklyn. “Kissing between subway cars?”
“You haven’t kissed me yet!” August points out.
“Oh, right,” Jane says. She brushes August’s windswept hair out of her face, and when their lips meet, she tastes like oranges and lightning.
* * *
August stays on the train late into the night, until the cars start to clear out and the timetable stretches longer and longer. She waits for the magic hour, and from the way Jane drags her hand along her waist, she’s waiting too.
There’s no convenient darkness this time, no perfectly timed stall, but there’s an empty car and the Manhattan Bridge and Jane pressing into her, hips moving and short breaths and kiss-slick lips. It should feel dirty, to be with Jane like this, here, but what’s crazy is, she finally understands it all. Love. The whole shape of it. What it means to touch someone like this and want to have a life with them at the same time.
Deliriously, the image of Jane with her house and her plants and her windchimes swims into view, and August is there too, wearing the shape of her body into an old bed. Jane slots between her legs and she thinks, fifty years. Jane bites down on her throat and she thinks of framed photos and stained recipe cards. Jane tightens against her fingertips and she thinks, home. Her eyes shut for Jane’s mouth and a good night’s sleep just the same.
I love you, she thinks. I love you. Please stay. I don’t know what I’ll do if you leave.
She thinks it, but she doesn’t say it. That wouldn’t be fair to either of them.
14
new york > brooklyn > community > missed connections
* * *
Posted October 12, 2004
Woman with red Converse on the Q (Brooklyn)
Apologies if this isn’t the right place for this, but I’m not sure where else to post. Not looking for a romantic connection. I was riding the Q with my son on Wednesday evening when a short-haired mid-twenties woman approached us and offered my son a pin from her jacket. It was a 70s-era gay pride pin, clearly a well-loved antique. My son is 15 and hasn’t had the easiest time at school since coming out earlier this year. Her act of kindness made his whole week. If you’re her, or you think you might know her, please let me know. I’d love to thank her.
In the end, it takes exactly one phone call for Gabe to agree to meet Myla for coffee.
“What can I say?” Myla says, pulling on an extremely flimsy top. “I’m the one who got away.”
“I’m going with you,” August tells her. She slings her bag over her shoulder, double-checking the pocketknife and mace. “This could be a ploy to get you alone so he can exact a bloody revenge.”
“Okay, Dateline, reel it in,” Myla says, shaking her hair out. “Love the instinctive mistrust of cis straight white men, but Gabe is harmless. He’s just boring. Like, really boring, but thinks he’s really interesting.”
“How did he get a job at Delilah’s?”
“He’s from one of those New York families, so his dad’s the landlord. He’s very straight.”
“And you dated him because…?”
“Look,” Myla says, “we all make mistakes when we’re young. Mine just happens to be six-foot-three and look exactly like Leonardo DiCaprio.”
“Revenant or Inception?”
“You really got me fucked up if you think I’d settle for anything less than Romeo + Juliet.”
“Damn, okay, I guess I get it.” August shrugs. “But I’m still going with