Page 7 of Somewhere Along The Line
“I’m not sure what I’m doing, to be honest,” he says. He looks around and gives an amused sigh, scrubbing his right hand through his hair. “This Elvis thing has me feeling like I’m in a simulation. Let me try this again.” He takes a deep breath. “Hey.”
“Just hey?” I squeak, desperate for him to say something, anything, to make up for the avalanche of words I unloaded a few moments ago.
“Okay, how about…” he bites is bottom lip in thought again, nestling it between his teeth. I try not to stare as he releases it and takes another breath. “Hey, I’m James, and I accept your apology for bumping my leg. And you were right yesterday, I am a banker. I didn’t know I was so easy to read.”
He looks relieved to have gotten the words out.
“How was that? Better?” he asks.
What would be better is if it wasn’t one hundred degrees on this train, but I refuse to peel off my top layer. Not in front of this man, thisJames, who looks like he’s never sweat a day in his life.
“I will accept that,” I reply, forcing an expression that I hope projects confidence and doesn't betray the chaos erupting in my chest. “And yes, youareeasy to read. I know your type from a mile away.”
“Do you?” His eyes quirk, prodding me with a look that asks me to prove it.
“Yep. You own the same pair of pants in approximately eight different shades of black, gray, and navy. You answer your phone without thinking, and you agree to whatever is asked of you without reservation. You listen to classic rock, you take your coffee black, you pride yourself on your typing speed and your ability to navigate Excel, and you wonder if your life expectancy is inversely correlated to the number of deals you get across the line.”
I feel a strange sense of pride in nailing him so thoroughly.
I immediately make myself promise to never think the phrase “nailing him so thoroughly”everagain as the blush creeps further up the side of my neck. “Tell me I’m wrong.”
James pauses, searching my face like he’s looking for something he didn’t know he lost.
“You’re wrong,” he deadpans, jostling his tumbler. “It’s black tea, not coffee, and I have ten pairs of identical neutral pants, not eight. Better luck next time.” His lips curl into a cheeky grin before he settles them down in their usual straight line.
He looks like he’s trying to convince himself not to say what he’s about to. “So, what’s your deal, then?” he asks, “other than mowing down strangers on the train and paying concerningly close attention to their pants?”
Heat rushes through me at the accusation that I may have stolen a glance, or several, at the man’s lower half.
“Well, for one, I do not look at everyone’s pants.” Only yours, I think, and only because the way those tailored pants hug your quads should be a crime. “And I don’t usually run into people either.”
“Does misseyes-up-herehave a name?”
“Piper.” The name comes out in a half-whisper. I don’t know if I can keep up this banter for a second longer with what it’s doing to my insides.
“Ah, Piper. Like the Pied Piper. That explains your charisma.”
“Are you mocking me again?” I reply sharply, the difference in volume between this exchange and the last causing the twin Elvises behind us to jump.
“No, I’m really not trying to. Sorry. Piper is a great name. Lovely, even.”
I nod, eyes narrowing, and he nods, a hint apologetic. My phone’s lock screen shows it’s only been six minutes since I boarded this train. We have another eight minutes to go.
James and I settle into an awkward silence, him scrolling his emails and me admiring the get-up of a man in his early seventies who is brandishing a guitar with “Burning Love” embroidered in script on the strap.
“You’re right, you know.” James breaks the tension with a tentative glance my way. “If someone had told me this morning I’d be packed in this sardine can with sixty clones of Elvis, I wouldn’t have believed it either.”
“I’m always right.” Will he call me out given the error I made guessing his beverage a few minutes before? He seems to consider this option but stays silent. I accept the olive branch of his statement and offer him one of my own.
“My question is how these people afford to take a day off work, buy these costumes, and spend all their fare money going between neighborhoods to drink their way around the city. My wallet couldnever.”
The words slip out with a chuckle, my brain forgetting for a moment that this man can’t commiserate with my paycheck-to-paycheck lifestyle. I let my eyes linger on what must be a father-son pair; they’re identical in features in addition to outfits.
“Maybe they’re all related,” I wonder aloud, pointing to the dynamic duo. “Surely, those two are. Then at least they’re saving money with a Family Fares commuter pass. If I could convince my sister to move to the city, I could pocket some extra cash each month that way.”
James looks at me curiously, and I wonder if he’s decided that a person for whom a bit of petty cash would make a difference isn’t worth his conversation. I can’t blame him. If I had disposable income, I’d look at me funny too.
He takes a beat, chewing on the words and seeing how they taste before spitting them out. “We could create a Family Fares account.”
