The 28th Street platform for the uptown 6 was pretty full. The train eased in and it too was full. I squeezed on.
A young Asian woman with a streak of blond in her bangs stood near the door. There was a bit of room behind her. Since I could feel people pushing behind me to get in, I said, “Do you think you could move over a bit?” and nodded toward the open space.
I said it nicely. I asked, I didn’t demand.
“I’m getting off at the next stop,” came her reply. She inched forward and I squeezed past her to free up a little space.
The doors eventually shut and we headed uptown. A black man in diamond earrings and a black baseball hat with the size sticker still on the brim (7 7/8) asked a middle aged blonde woman if she wanted his seat. She smiled and declined. A hipster-y chick read a book with the chapter heading “Anton Tries Buttsex–Hilarity Does Not Ensue.”
Me, I held on to the pole and hoped I didn’t come off as unpleasant in that exchange.
We got to 33rd Street. The doors opened. People got off. People got on. The young Asian woman froze. Seats opened. I grabbed one. The Asian woman took the one next to me.
I found myself wondering about her as we ambled toward 42nd, not six inches from each other. Had she changed her travel plans on the fly? Had she thought of some unpleasant incident at 33rd and decided to avoid it? Had she flat-out lied to me? Why?
I wanted to ask, but I didn’t.
If someone pulled that with me, I would have to ask why she didn’t get off. That’s obnoxious of her.