What Happens When You Connect With Your Missed Connection

The twinkling of the oncoming train’s headlamp snaps me back to the present. Surveying the depth of the crowd in front of me, I realize there’s no way I’ll be able to make it onto this train. I inch closer to the steel pillar nearest me and half-lean against it, content to be the first in line for the next train. Once the cars are filled to capacity and the doors shut, I step forward onto the yellow tiles; missing one train is fine, but two simply will not do.

When the next train pulls in, I start looking for where I’ll be scrambling to stand before the door even opens, accidentally locking eyes with a sandy-haired man inside in the process. He looked away first before abandoning his seat to stand, grasping the rail overhead while steadying the book loosely gripped in his other hand. Sardined into the car by the rush of commuters behind me, I accidentally-on-purpose find myself next to him, feigning rapt attention in my book while stealing glances at him from my periphery. Staring downward, it’s the beaten leather of his work boots that catch my eye, followed by the splatters of dust and paint running down the legs of his pants. Clearly this guy works construction. And, is, apparently, literate.

Baffled by this string of realizations, my attention shifted between the slow pace I was making through the printed paragraphs in front of me and the light scruff on this stranger’s face. It took all my focus to pretend I didn’t notice every time he looked up from his book, the weight of his gaze sending a knowing tingle up my spine. We stood next to each other through each passing L stop in Manhattan, and then well into Brooklyn, half-reading and half-studying each other as the crowd steadily thinned out. There was no way to exchange words now, too much ogling had occurred for speaking to be casual. An older man seated in front of me giggled as my new reading buddy got off the train at the stop before mine, saying something I couldn’t quite hear over the music still playing through those awful earbuds. I peered over the edge of my book at the smiling man, raising my eyebrows, the corners of my mouth turned up in a wry smile. I knew something had happened behind my back, something amusing enough to cause a stranger to smile and laugh, but didn’t turn around, opting instead to relish in the thrill of not knowing.

I got off at the next stop, the extra spring in my step still accompanied by a smirk I couldn’t wipe off my face. I had to do something — this sensation needed to last just a little bit longer.

One thing came to mind: Craigslist’s “Missed Connections.”  Fuck it, I figured, just take the plunge. Having laid the post out in my head while walking home, it effortlessly pieced itself together in the text document open before me. And it was fucking perfect.

I got on the L at 6th Ave. You were giving me the once over through the window before the doors opened so I could get on. You gave up your seat for old ladies and we stood next to each other on the way to Brooklyn. I stole sidelong glances at you; I think you stole some at me, too. You were wearing an army green t-shirt with Carhartt pants and work boots. I didn’t see what you were reading, but there was enough dirt under your nails and in hard-to-scrub crevices for me to suspect you work with your hands. You’re quite handsome, and probably not the type to read missed connections, but this is worth a shot.

The man seated in front of me started giggling when you got off at ______. Did you trip on your way out? Did you give me another good, long look? My back was turned, but I’d love to know what I missed.

Who was taller anyway, me or you?