Do You Fence? 

“Excuse me,” someone says, leaning towards me, too close for my comfort.  

I look up carefully. It’s a man with salt and pepper hair, a day’s growth of beard, wearing jeans and a black thermal vest, holding a navy bag against his chest. He’s in his fifties. His glasses rise up against the bridge of his nose and he squints as he leans away from me, perhaps noticing he’s too close.  

“Do you fence?” he asks, a hesitant smile on his lips. 

“What?” I ask, leaning back myself. 

He sits down, retreating, diagonally from me with two seats between us, a safe distance. It’s seven-thirty in the evening and there are only a dozen people in our car. We’re spaced comfortably.  

“Do you fence? Fence?”  

He’s holding his bag tighter but he’s smiling fully and pointing at my bag.  

I remember I’ve got a button from my website with a picture of a fencer, rapier and dagger in hand, attached to my bag. “Yeah,” I say, putting my The Anatomy of Hatha Yoga book down. It’s heavy and I can feel it pressing down onto my lap.  

“Yes,” I say again. “I do.” I smile back.  

“My niece fences in Westchester,” he says, pressing his glasses against his nose with his index finger. “She’s heading for the Olympics. She fences saber.” 

“That’s great. It’s a great sport. Saber is great.” 

Still smiling, he nods enthusiastically and opens his bag. I wait, politely, to see whether he’s going to continue the conversation. A black spiral notebook emerges from his bag and he immerses himself in its contents.  

I nod and open my anatomy book, then look back at the man. He’d smiled at me and I’d smiled back. There it was, right in front of me. Call and response. Simple human communication.  

My subway defenses down, I smiled at a woman who sat next to me. She smiled back, big and bold, making my face beam, renewing my confidence in all things subway.–Joe Lunievicz