by Laurie Edwards
(11/19/08)

He remembered the first time he saw her. It was a frigid January morning; the air so cold that it stole his breath, even before the wind could take it away. He was riding in the third car of the commuter train, sitting in a spacious seat right up front. He sat not by the window, which he preferred, but on the aisle; his briefcase resting on the floor between his feet. The woman sitting by the window was oblivious to him as she read her novel, borrowed, apparently, from her local library if the tattoo on the pages could be trusted. The woman remained oblivious even as he gazed past her to notice another woman, running for the train, the woman who would become his obsession. The woman who would steal his heart.

She raced across the icy platform as quickly as three-inch-heeled boots would allow. Her coat billowed behind her like a sail of camel-colored wool. Her cheeks were pink, cotton-candy pink but turning cherry red from the cold, blowing wind. She gripped the neck of her coat closed and made a sharp turn, sliding into the train car as the automated voice announced departure. A smile played at her lips, seemingly an "I told you so" smirk to her time-challenged brain.

He stood and, in an act of chivalry, motioned her to take his seat. She tilted her head, letting the smile play a little longer on her lips and continued her slide across the floor, swaying with the motion of the rolling train and onto the seat, warm where he had been riding for the past three stops. Once settled, she looked up, eyelashes fringing deep brown eyes, the pale skin of her forehead translucent, contrasting with her bright pink cheeks.

"Thank you," she whispered, her voice soft, breathless from the cold and the race she had just won.

He started to answer "You're welcome" but found he could barely speak. He nodded instead, then raised his eyes to continue his survey of the world ticking away outside the window of the train. Grey skies and barren trees sped past, but all his mind registered were pink cheeks and the paleness of her skin.

He watched for her, on the ride home and nearly every work day after that. Some days he was rewarded with a smile or a nod as she stepped into the car; other days he was disappointed when she failed to show.

Something shifted in February. The train was crowded that afternoon. He stood in the alcove behind the engineer's booth of the third car. He had almost given up on her that evening and had turned his interest to the newspaper. The train pulled from the station as he read ridiculous suggestions some writer had compiled for Valentine's Day. He pondered the consequences of matching underpants as, suddenly, she leaned over his shoulder and whispered, "Only if they are silk."

He turned to see her sparkling eyes. "I thought you had missed the train." Brilliant conversation was not his strong suit. "I think the seat by that woman with the novel will be open soon. You should move that direction." He wondered at his mouth for saying these things. His body preferred her warmth next to him.

"No, I don't really like sitting next to her. I don't know if you noticed -- she's been reading that novel for nearly six weeks." She leaned closer in a conspiratorial manner and whispered, "Actually, she's reading porn. When she gets to a really exciting part she starts to hum. I just can't stand it anymore; I'm afraid she may reach over and try to kiss me or...something."

His eyes widened at this thought, and she began to laugh.

And so began their habit of making up outrageous stories about the other riders in their car. They invented love triangles and affairs and a particularly hilarious ménage à trios between the urban youth in sagging pants, the well-dressed executive assistant in the Versace suit, and the panhandler in dingy khaki. He drove from the train to home every day with the music of her laughter and her gentle whispers singing in his ears.

Valentine's Day fell on a Friday that year and he bought an outsized red gerbera daisy to give her. He felt that a rose was too suggestive and maybe too clichéd, so when he spied the daisy's large face and garish petals, he knew deep inside that this was the flower she would love. He hid the gift behind his back as he waited for her to board. True to type, proving herself no slave to time, she sprinted across the platform and just made it through the door as the train began its slow pull from the station.

She stood next to him in the alcove at the front of the car as she had become accustomed to doing, enjoying their silly conversations about which rider had done what the night before. He was unusually quiet until they arrived at her stop. "Happy Valentine's," he whispered as the conductor announced the station. He presented her with the rambunctious flower, its heavy head dipping in a bow.

He was rewarded with a sparkling smile and a whispered, "Thank you," and then to his surprise, she leaned in and kissed his cheek before turning and dashing through the nearly closed doors of the car. He felt her lips on his skin long after he arrived at his office. He felt the press of her and the warmth of her breath until long after lunch.

She didn't stand near him that night on the ride home. She sat instead near the "porn woman," moving deliberately to the open seat, sitting at an angle and crossing her legs in a slow-motion dance. She watched his face as she reached into her purse and took out a red lollipop, the type with the hard candy outside and soft chewy center. She held his gaze as she unwrapped the candy and began to lick its hard outer shell, closing her eyes as she savored the sweet taste.

She moved the red lollipop in and out of her mouth. Her refusal to stand near him would have been taken as a slight if he hadn't caught the sly, sultry look from the corner of her eye with each long, slow lick.

He watched in amazement as her lips began to take on the red cast of the candy; his face beginning to glow with the same red blush. As the train arrived at her stop she stood and moved near him, and leaning close, she whispered, "Happy Valentine's to you also," and then she took his hand and placed in it the candy's paper stick, the remainder of the treat still glistening from her warm wonderful mouth.

Half absentminded, he brought the candy to his own lips and delighted in the taste of her, the cherry flavor of the lollipop wholly inconsequential; the warmth of her mouth sliding down his throat, pulsing through his body, bringing every nerve alive. He couldn't get home fast enough; the image of the red sucker moving slowly in and out between her luscious red lips.

He watched for her arrival the following Monday. She missed the train but waved as he looked through the window onto the platform. She did not ride the train again that month, and he felt existence begin to slide toward normality once again.

March arrived, unseasonably warm, a lamb of a breeze welcoming riders as they waited for the train. He had given up watching at her stop, returning to the crossword puzzle which had been his traveling companion in the past.

He was absorbed in an op-ed piece and didn't notice as she reached out and took the bar next to his hand. The train accelerated away from the station and the woman leaned into him for support. He looked up and his heart stopped. She gazed over her shoulder into his eyes and once again, with her smile, he felt his life resume.

She was wearing a thin silk dress, soft and flowing, hugging her breasts and hips the way he wished his hands could. She leaned back against his khaki-clad leg and, impulsively, he let his free arm encircle her waist. He felt the slick fabric move over her body with every sway of the train; his hand skimming her midsection, fingers grazing the underside of her breast.

She laid her head against his chest and they swayed with the motion of the train. At her stop, she rolled out of his grasp but only after whispering "Tomorrow" into his ear. He watched, heart in his throat, body pulsing, as she moved from the car, the sudden breeze sweeping the hem of her dress to the top of her thigh.

He remembered nothing about the rest of the trip home. He dropped his briefcase at the door and headed immediately to the shower. He turned it on full force, and as the steaming water washed over him, he let his hands caress the places in his body that cried out with the most urgent need. The memories of flowing silk and pale thigh fueled his strokes.

He slept that night with the window open, the spring breeze moving over his body, each caress of the air her breath on his skin.

He missed his morning train.

That evening he waited in the alcove of the third car. She was waiting as the train pulled into her station, wearing a trench coat buckled tight at the waist.

She glanced quickly into his eyes as she boarded, then looked away. As she turned away from him to take a seat, he grasped her wrist, pulling her to him.

"You know, there's a couple on this train who have been having an affair -- since January." He looked down into her eyes. "The woman is driving the man wild. She seems to have no idea how she's affecting him."

"Oh?"

His arm moved around her waist, pulling her closer.

"It's time we let her know just what he wants to do with her."

He held her gaze, savoring the flash of something -- fear? -- that sparked in her eyes.

"I think he wants to take her home, to show her firsthand how a lollipop feels in a mouth, how silk feels against skin."

She remained quiet until the train reached her stop. Only then did she return his gaze, moving his hand away from her body long enough to tug loose the buckled belt of her coat, allowing him to see the smooth skin underneath, the suggestion of lace and little else.

"I thought you would never ask," she whispered in his ear.

She took his hand and pulled him recklessly from the train, his briefcase forgotten in the alcove of the third car, the woman reading her novel oblivious still.

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