First of all, I just have to say that I am not the kind of girl that makes out with strangers. Whatever kind of girl that is.
On a Tuesday morning in late February, I took this particular train to a job interview in Camden. And in black stilettos and a waistcoat that displayed my assets to best effect, I also took the train back home. While waiting on the platform a tall, dark, and exceptionally well-dressed man stands next to me.
“Excuse me? I want to go to Green Park. Is this the right train?”
After fumbling with my iPod earphones and realizing that he is in fact speaking to me in his Spanish-British accent, I tell him that Green Park is only two stops from where we are, obviously.
“So this is the train you’re getting on?”
“You’re American, aren’t you?”
The all but empty train pulls into the station and we get on, and stand facing one another on opposite sides of the car. I nod, but since I don’t really have any idea what’s going on, I wait for him to say something else, not that it’s really his words that I am paying any attention to.
“Well, you don’t seem American.”
“What do I seem like?” Seeing as I can’t really hear him over the clattering of the tube down the rails, it seems best to go with short sentences. His solution is a little different. He comes over to my side and leans against the wall above me.
“You seem like sunshine.” It’s a really good thing I am not paying attention to what he’s saying at this point.
Then the announcement sounds: Next stop, Green Park.
And then there’s the moment. Eye contact and a sudden and perfect understanding of the fact that we will never see each other again, we probably won’t get another chance to take advantage of how good we look this morning, and the idea of it not happening is so ridiculous that it doesn’t even merit contemplation. And that’s when I made out with a complete stranger on the Piccadilly line. It couldn’t have been more than a few (extremely sensual, slow, hot, perfect) kisses when the train stopped. The doors opened, we smiled at one another, and he picked up his briefcase and went off to work. The bubble of perfection that had formed in that first moment of eye contact popped.
I was left with a mild case of whisker burn, glares from the elderly English matron across the aisle, and a smile.
Then I realized how crazy the moment was. Because contrary to the training of fairytales and grandmothers alike, I did not want to know this guy’s name, would really prefer it if I never saw him again, and certainly would not be stalking the Piccadilly line at the same time everyday trying to find him and relive the fantasy. Because we had somehow just created the most perfect moment of attraction and indulgence to ever achieve reality, and to do anything other than let it exist would be to spoil it.
Being thoroughly visceral, I have fully embraced the prospect and the perks of a relationship without an ounce of commitment or intimacy. Just a healthy dose of passion.