A Letter to the Old Woman Sitting Next to Me on the Subway by Cooper Gregg

On the C train to Manhattan the man next to me gives up his seat. He gestures from you to the seat and back to you, as if to suggest his once sticky and now warmed chair can give your waning muscles a moment’s relief. You sit and turn to me. “That’s the only thing men will ever do for you,” you say, your lips brightly dressed in an all but natural shade, lips that curl around each syllable. I laugh. I shouldn’t have laughed. Your voice is unwavering and instructive. I now know you were never joking.

We’re all pressed together nose-to-nose in a melting pot that hicks and jolts along the belly of the city. The eastern sun hits the surface and the ground swallows it down. The heat down here is thick. I wonder if you can see me sweat. I wonder if I should ask you what perfume you wear. I catch flashes of bergamot, AARP, and lust -maybe it’s Miss Dior? I chew on my words to find nothing comes out. Maybe I could tell you about the show I caught last night or the first time I came to New York? You know, I really want to go to school here, but I rarely go past 6th Avenue.

I wonder if you’ve lived here your whole life. You look it - I’m sorry. The city has brought color to your cheeks, pulled on your eyelids and pinched your ears. Freckles trail up and down your arms - just like mine - and your red claw-like nails tap rhythmically on your thigh. Your other hand clutches an open grocery bag - making someone dinner? - and I follow your gaze to the bright constellation of subway stops and I try to imagine where you call home.

I wonder if I should point out our shared skin trait, like matching tattoos we never knew we got. Maybe someone’s once tried to count yours in kisses like someone once tried with me. Maybe I should tell you I still miss the curly haired girl with the dark moon eyes. What would you tell me to do? For a minute I throw away my plans for the rest of the day and dream of being your shadow. I’ll ask you a million questions and you’ll call me honey like you did when you wished me a good weekend as I stepped off the train. Your soft freckled hands will cup my shoulders and you will tell me all the secrets time keeps.