Get into the groove
Boy you’ve got to prove
Your love to me
Get up on your feet
And step to the beat
Boy what will it be?
Live out your fantasy here with me
Just let the music set you free
Touch my body and move in time
Now I know your mine
That Madonna song never grows old.
He was standing and she sat in
front of him with her iphone and transparent cosmetic case balanced
precariously on her backpack. The backpack was perched on her lap and in
between sentences and applying mascara, she multitasked further by holding a
conversation and singing.
I could only see him from behind
but from what I could tell he was wearing outdated, oversized, faded designer
jeans bagged around his knees and rear end. It was not a flattering look complete with his imitation Converse basketball shoes, pimply neckline and glasses. From what
I could glimpse of his momentary profile, I could tell that he was young. Maybe
16.
I figured that he was: A) interested
in her, or B) just passing time and was nervous in her presence even though
they have been going to school together for years.
“The Regents are coming up next
week.”
“My throat is killing me. I am sick
of homework.”
“It is sick how much homework they
are giving us. Especially with Physics Regents.”
Her black sequined mini-dress or
skirt was visible from where I sat. I detected black opaque tights and well
worn, semi-unlaced black army boots. Her
hair was long and I think intentionally unwieldy.
She took out her lipstick, a
stunning dark red which I don’t want to spoil by naming it crimson. That would not do it justice.
She started to sing.
“I am a high upper 3-octave range
singer. That’s pretty good for my age. Beyonce is is upper 5 octave.”
“I didn’t know that.”
She began applying her lipstick
with the precision of a Flemish Renaissance painter. Tiny brush strokes, without
a brush, only the tube applicator.
Short, precise and careful strokes covered her lips as she looked
carefully into her Sephora pocket mirror.
Nothing had fallen off her lap yet.
She continued to sing. Hitting some
high notes. It wasn’t loud, but she was working on her vocals as if she needed
to make up for lost time, but in a lazy sort of way.
He looked awkward and then was the
announcement about the train going express from Grand Central to Union Square.
“Are you getting off?” She asked.
“No. I am staying on.”
I couldn’t tell if she was
disappointed or mostly indifferent to this information.
“I’m staying on.” He repeated.
“Maybe I’ll get the bus later.”
“They take forever.”
“Not at 14th Street.”
“Oh.” She looked even more
disinterested and started singing again.
She finished up her lipstick
application and he turned his head and I saw the pimples and his glasses more
clearly. I sort of worried that he might have had an erection in those baggy
pants and I was embarrassed for him as he was standing right in front of her. I
know that sounds bad, but he was so young and she was so aloof and somehow I
sensed he was attracted to her in that unrequited teen lust way, which makes me
sad when I see teen movies. Then she took out a glass container, which
resembled a tiny jar of marmalade, and twisted off the cap and proficiently
applied hand cream.
It had a strong floral scent.
He got off at Union Square, I
think. They said good-bye but I got the sense they would see each other again
soon. He looked so young and she didn’t, but must’ve been, too.
She and I both got off at Bleeker
and I was impressed by her long legs as she trotted down the steps to get the
F, D or M train. I wondered if she was going to Brooklyn.
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