I was coming home late last night after playing softball in Central Park. The PATH train was comfortably crowded — enough people to keep things interesting — and I had space for my personal bag of softball equipment and the team's collection of bases and extraneous stuff. I'd been on the train since 33rd Street, as had the woman who was sitting a couple seats away from me. She was reading her book, I read mine.I think the young couple entered the train at 14th Street. She was a fashion-model type — tall and thin with perfectly toned legs that went all the way to the floor. Wisps of blond hair poked out from beneath her white hoody. Her boyfriend was a muscular-looking guy who might have been a model, too. He was taller than she and his hands were large enough to cup her tiny behind, which he did often while they kissed. She playfully scolded him in her European-accented voice about something he said, calling him a bastard, but the smile on her face showed she wasn't too upset.
I turned back to my book and kept trying to read, but I couldn't help but peek at the girl from time to time — her legs wrapping around his, her hands strolling along his back — as the train swayed on the tracks. Their kisses were loud and sloppy, overcoming the squealing train wheels that echoed in the tunnel.
By the time we arrived in Hoboken, I hadn't finished another page. While I bent over to place the book back in my bag to get ready to depart, the woman sitting next to me said, "I feel like I've been watching a French soap opera. I couldn't help watching. I didn't want to, but I couldn't help it."
We both laughed and left the train.
The blond brushed by my bag of bases on her way up the stairs. She turned. "Sorry," she said, smiling.
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