On my way home from work the other night, I realized my hands were dry. (Accurséd winter air.) But what luck! Julie had given me a new purse-sized hand-lotion, knowing my deep love of moisturizing. Rummage time.
Not the umbrella, the thingy I stick small things in, the ziplock still in there from flying homehome, the other ziplock with Mom-mix Mom put in my purse for my flight herehome, or the hat, or the Giant Beloved Sunglasses. Tube. Tube, squishy. Squishy tube!
Sweet relief. Yes.
When I looked up, people were looking in my direction - 'people' as in the whole end of the train. Okay. Their hungry little animals eyes zeroed in, and I looked back. Remember when you were a kid and you'd clearly walked in on a discussion you were not meant to hear, even in part? Like that feeling, at first, but then more a searching curiosity, heads scanning, noses aloft. Then the overly skinny 'do rag-wearing guy sitting two seats over on my right, at the end of the bench, says, "Excuse me, what is that scent?"
"My lotion?" [Blank stare taken as an affirmative.] "You really want to know?"
"Ya, it's amazing."
Girl between us, his overly fleshy and sweet-faced girlfriend (judging strictly by all the canoodling) adds, "It smells so good. What is it?"
Grab from purse. "Apparently," squint, "Mango Mandarin."
Guy: "Can I see it?"
Hand over.
Guy: "Can I use some?"
[Laughter peppered from our end of the train.]
"Sure. Have at it."
We watch him. He hands it back, with a thanks.
Me: "Feel better?"
Guy: "I do."
Woman across from us: "Wow, who makes it?"
"Don't know."
Girl next to me: "Where'd you get it?"
"From a friend."
Another woman, standing to the side: "Think it has a number on it we can call?"
I pull the lotion back out. It is a superstar, a god among purse objects, but I trust my other purse objects to not resort to puncturing violence or anything, even if they're feeling a bit neglected. Sorry, guys; you're all essential to my quality of life. Don't worry.
Me: "Oh, it's just B____."
Girl: "They make good stuff."
Guy: "I can get that!" He is genuinely pleased.
Woman to the side: "We should've just been a commercial."
Me: "For serious."
Woman across: "Your lotion just brought together an entire subway car."
[Shrug. Smile.]
And...scene.
Sometimes the subway has small moments so touchingly human. (This does not mean you, MTA.)
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4 comments:
"Girl between us, his overly fleshy and sweet-faced girlfriend..."
Couldn't you dispense with the physical descrippo and just call me by name? You looked at me as if you didn't even know me!
GO LOTION!
Maybe the presence of a good smell in the subway was so remarkable that your new friends couldn't help but comment -- a single, fragrant, lotiony rose in a bog of urine-, Jamaican-beef-patty-, and subterranean-stinkgasm-flowers.
P.S. This is the kind of sheez that only happens to you.
I'm telling you a trip needs must be taken by: you, MH, and I.
Also, I think you'd have to replace 'overly' with 'most dazzlingly alabaster' in order to even be CLOSE.
Trip ahoy! I might die of the cosmic-confluence exciting-happenings, though. Then you'd have to lug my corpse around, Weekend at Bernie's style. Hijinks would almost certainly ensue.
Flattery will get you everywhere, btw. EYEBROW-WAGGLE!
No die-sies. No.
Not of you.
So it is written. So it shall be done.
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