Art College Girl

Every morning, I take the Metra train into the city for work. There's a community of regulars on the train...nobody ever speaks, but there are plenty of nods and smiles. We recognize each other, and are comfortably friendly while maintaining anonymity. There's me, Oddly-shaped-head guy, Baby Man, Bald Cary Grant, Stupid Lady, and Art College Girl.

Art College Girl typically sits in front of me upstairs on the train. Like any (presumably) eighteen or nineteen year old girl, she's bubbly and cute. She's one of few women I haven't automatically had impure thoughts about, because, well, I'm certifiably old, she is not, and sometimes you just want to preserve an image of innocence about a person. Normally, I'm a complete pervert, as you all should know. But not with Art College Girl; I just get on the train, sit down, flash a smile and wave when she walks past, and go to sleep listening to my iPod.

So this morning, I get on the train one stop south of my normal station, because I parked at my parents' house for a whole host of reasons. My usual seat is unoccupied, possibly out of everyone else's respect for routine. I sit down, pop in my ear buds, and boom, out like a light as soon as Three Little Birds hits my timpanae.

When the train pulls into Union Station, everyone starts getting up and queuing to get off the train as fast as possible, but per normal, I wait until the train has stopped moving because I'm a clumsy fat ass and know better. Art College Girl gets up, gathers her things, turns around, sees me and smiles as she walks past. I turn my head back towards the window and close my eyes for thirty seconds more sleep, and suddenly someone's patting me on the chest. I turn and look back, and it's Art College Girl.

She looks down at me, and strokes her chin, asks me, "Did you shave?" I had shaved, because two nights ago I ate soup, and had a moment of pure fatigue at having to shampoo my face every time I imbibed any spoon-ladeled liquid. For the first time in years, my face is completely shorn of whiskers. I nodded, "Yeah," and she smiled an eighteen-year-old smile, patted me on the shoulder and said, "You look good," with an approving nod. "Thanks," I said, mostly stunned at the first and potentially last conversation I'll ever have with this person.

So, the up and down of it, thank you Art College Girl, for giving an old dude something to feel good about first thing on a Friday morning. It was a sweet thing to do. And no, I'm totally not sexing you up in my mind now, and won't be. Sorry if that disappoints my readers.