The Boy on the T

It was cold outside, but too warm in the underground station where we waited for the subway.

My sister called it the T. I don't know why. I do know it smelt like diesel and old concrete--a smell that hits you as soon as you step foot on the escalator that takes you beneath the city where the trains run.

We squished in as the doors beeped, warning us they were trying to close. I looked for a rail to hold so I wouldn't smash into the poor person standing behind me when the train started to move.

I liked Boston.

There, it felt like history mattered.

At least enough for someone to paint a red line across the city.

And it felt like I could run into a Harvard boy at any given moment, which helped out the whole liking Boston situation.

In fact, as I shivered in my brown coat and creme-colored scarf I thought often about what it would be like to converse with a Harvard boy over a cup of hot chocolate.

I decided that it would probably be nice, and maybe I would ask him to date me.

Friday night.

My last night in Boston.

9 p.m.

I was standing on a crowded subway looking for something to hold on to.

I called it a subte. I think saying things in Spanish makes me sound exotic.

"There's room here," the boy on the T said.

I looked over, and then turned away quickly.

I was starting to blush. So I pivoted before my face turned into a tomato.

And then the excuses-- I can't stand there. I can't reach the bar he's holding on to. My makeup is smudged by my eyes. I don't even know if he was talking to me.

AND I smell like spicy peanut butter, not to mention, I am carrying a bag of thai food that is practically leaking on the floor.

So I found a place for short people to hold onto and turned my back to the boy on the T.

And now I have something I need to tell that boy, so here goes:

Dear Boy on the T,

I realize that you will never read this, unless by some twist of fate you stumble across my blog in an in-depth search for the Boston Red Socks that takes you to page 453 or maybe 2,598 of google where there is an inconsequential link to my post about being a fan of that baseball team.

But, should you happen upon this page in the near future, or when you are 82, you should know that I am sorry.

I honestly considered the very real possibility that you weren't talking to me. And even if you were, since I was not carrying my purse I had no gum to quell the smell of asian-flavored peanut butter that I thought may offend you.

I realize now, that I should have slipped you my phone number and asked if I could have 5 minutes to brush my teeth instead of walking away like a stuck-up little girl carrying leaking leftovers.

I would also like to thank you for, in a way, acknowledging that I am, in fact, older than 14. That was much appreciated.

So boy on the T, I guess that what I am trying to say is, thank you for offering me a spot on the crowded subte. (I speak Spanish by the way... don't you think that's very exotic of me?)

If we should meet again, please offer me a stick of gum, and I will hand you back the wrapper with my phone number on it.

I'm serious.

Sincerely,

Alec