Sri called last night and wanted to debrief me on her hair appointment (Sri: now with 100% better hair!) so I exercised my excellent judgment and free will and took the remaining $27 I have left to last me until Tuesday to the upper west side.
After oooing and ahing and clucking over Sri's hair (and spending $9 on a glass of wine), I boarded a 1 train south to Times Square. Below, what happened on the train.
The Man: mid-twenties, multi-racial, of the hispanic mixed with all kinds of other things type (I am guessing if I had asked him he would have told me either Dominican or Puerto Rican, but pointy Irish ears and a smattering of freckles and a nose that comes only from France and the glowing good skin... I don't know). Tattoo of flowery vine on left arm, spider-web elbow tattoo on right arm. A tribal number on the back of his neck. Baggy pants, studded belt, wife beater, cubic zirconia earrings (both ears), steel toed boots. Your basic nightmare (if you are my mother... Or my father... Or my brother, come to think of it).
The Woman: Late teens, early twenties, also mult-racial but of the India/Bangladesh/Sri Lanka/Tibet kind mixed with European stuff (note, this look is excellent... mix up India/Bangladesh/Sri Lanka/Tibet with anything European, and the result is uniformly excellent). No tattoos, no jewelry. tight jeans, black tank top, strappy sandals, wavy black hair down to her butt, a solid B cup, perhaps a C if the bra was padded. Baby pink toenail polish. Tammy Faye mascara, baby pink lip gloss. All kinds of pretty.
The Situation: Love.
She was sitting on his lap, and they were gazing into each other's eyes with such passion that I feared the three inches between them might ingnite and burn their faces off. Her arms were around his shoulders, and his arms were around her waist and he had one hand curled up around her face so that he could stroke her jaw, or any other part of her face he adored, with his thumb.
(all in whispers..... sshhhhhh)
He: I love you, baby.
She: Baby, I love you.
(bing, bong "This stop is: 66th Street.... the next stop is: 59th Street... stand clear of the closing doors, please" bing bong)
He: More than lottery tickets.
She: More than clean sheets.
He: More than payday.
She: More than perfect hair.
(bing, bong "This stop is: 59th Street... the next stop is 50th Street... stand clear of the closing doors, please" bing bong)
He: More than green grass.
She: More than angels.
He: More than sunshine.
She: More than oceans.
He: More than moonlight.
She: More than heaven.
He: More than summertime.
They stared at each other with such longing that it made me want to go sit on his other knee; so great was this inferno of passionate desire that I might have risked the burning to get in on it. Lovelovelovelovelove! Have I said anything yet about the love? Because this was love. If you don't think so, read what happened next.
She brought her arms out from around his shoulder and cradled his face in her palms. They kissed. And then. And then...
She, in a whisper (shhhhh!): More than chicken.
She dropped her head on his shoulder and he proceeded to rock her like an infant. Because of a love greater than chicken. I am not kidding.
(bing, bong "This stop is 42nd Street, Times Square... the next stop is 34th Street, Penn Station... stand clear of the closing doors please" bing bong)
As I disembarked, and I looked back over my shoulder at them and they were still there, rocking, oblivious to the entire world.
And this is all I have to say to you today, internet: love. Lovelovelovelovelovelovelove. More than moonbeams, more than angels' wings, more than butterflies and kittens... more than chicken.
The Crazy, Day Two: I am failing miserably. Last night after I got home, I had a glass of diet ginger ale with just a splash of gin in it. Then I had a bag of Cool Ranch Doritos... and just the merest splash of gin and ginger ale. Repeat. Today I am meeting Bibi to climb. I hope to remain at the gym long after she leaves and sweat to death. I am too scared to even check and see if I measure appropriately.