City by the Lake

"Doors closing. Wilson is next. Doors open on the left at Wilson," the mechanical voice crackled over the loudspeaker. The train lurched into motion.

The smudged plexiglass of the train car window bore the brand of whoever had etched 'RX 4eva' into its surface. I glanced at my semi-transparent reflection in the window, then frowned and swept a lengthy arc of blond hair out of my eyes. I couldn't help but pause for a longer look; my image was superimposed over the city lights beyond the station, and together my eyes and the lights looked like stars settled low in the dark sky. Finally I broke away, avoiding the touch of the other standing passengers as I turned back to the interior of the car.

The cramped space was packed with late rush-hour passengers, from the elderly woman on my right, a flowery scarf fixing the gray hair in place on her bowed head, to the businessman in the dark suit whose bespectacled eyes looked too tired and too angry for his young age. I loved the city, but I would have rather been "running south on Lake Shore Drive, headin' into town," like the old song says, instead of standing through an hour's commute home on the 'L,' feeling edgy in a car full of strangers.

One of them tapped me on the shoulder; I flinched in surprise and turned around.

"You want a seat?" The voice was low and quiet amidst the chatter of the train car, and had a gravelly flavor to it. It might have carried the hint of an Eastern European or Hispanic accent, but I wasn't sure.

The owner of the voice motioned with his left hand as he rose. Relieved that the contact was merely a stranger's politeness, I accepted the seat and mumbled my thanks.

"This is Wilson," blurted the loudspeaker as I rearranged my short skirt. It was getting too cool outside for skirts, I thought, and resolved to wear pants to work tomorrow. "Doors closing. Sheridan is next..."

Now seated, I frowned and sized up my benefactor, who was facing towards me, leaning against a steely vertical guide bar. Everything about him seemed at once both perfectly comfortable in his environment and completely out of place in it. I couldn't begin to pin down his age. Similarly, his ethnicity was indefinable - he might have had Black, White, Hispanic, or Asian ancestry for all that I could tell.

The man was tall, and his broad shoulders dominated the view. His blue jeans were well worn but slightly too long, and they hung over his grey sneakers. A light, sleeveless jacket, unzipped, covered an old Bulls t-shirt, but did little to obscure bulky biceps and trim abs. He seemed built for driving railroad spikes or moving warehouse crates. A pair of sunglasses poked out of one jacket pocket, and the hefty headphones around his neck were blaring something bluesy and rich with bass. I hated smoking, but found his odor of cigarettes and comfortable clothes agreeable, almost alluring.

The man caught me staring and I dropped my gaze to my lap, picking at the nail polish on my thumb in embarrassment.

"That's a good one."

I looked up and my eyes and ears caught the words leaving full lips bordered by a strong chin and a gruff five-o'clock shadow. "What?"

"That book." He pointed to the copy of a Studs Terkel paperback sticking out of my purse. "It's good." His eyes met mine.