This is a situation that happens at least twice a day on my daily commute. The one thing I can actually stand about the complex snaking of tunnels beneath this crazy little island-nation is the plethora of hot men that run in and out of those sliding doors we should all stand so clear of. This one embodied what is quickly becoming my "type": the hot nerdTM. Cute pinstriped pants, fabulous man-bag, a clean white undershirt--displaying very well the hotness underneath--all capped off by a neat pony tail and horn-rimmed glasses. I imagined us pushing a stroller somwehere on the Upper West Side, perhaps in Europe once we tired of America and decided to quit it all together. We'd be wearing matching cardigans and linen shorts coming just so above the knee. I'd have my sunglasses on in order to fool the paparazzi constantly at my door, but he'd be at my side, ready to tackle the nearest photohog that dared snap pictures of my baby after I had already promised exclusive rights to People. We'd share private moments and jokes harvested through years of intimate discussions and broke-back-breaking sex. I'd be wearing cheap Converse slip-ons, to keep me close to the people. But a few feet behind us would be our Swedish bodybuilding bodyguard to keep the people far enough from us. And boy would we be stoned! Stoned and in love, our two adopted Chinese and Sudanese babies giggling away at the brilliant sun shining only for them. For a brief moment, life would have been as perfect as it could have gotten.
But then the doors opened and we diverged towards different exits. It's still nice to imagine had we actually made eye contact something serendipitous would have happened. Or at least, you know, a blow job in the back of a Duane Reade.
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