Alex’s lips are fixed in a half smile. He’s staring at our hands.
I don’t pull away. He doesn’t either. It’s like when I kissed him. It just feels right. No, not right. Better.
The baby across from us lets out a squawk. The mother coos, and the little one settles down.
I draw my fingers away. “There. All dry.”
I place his half of the bar in his palm. His eyes flick up. His half smile becomes a full one.
The bar is delicious, crunchy, like a Rice Krispies Treat dipped in peanut butter with chunks of chocolate shoved inside it. I could eat about ten of these for dinner. Shoot—I almost forgot . . .
“Hey, I’m sorry to ask this, but can I use your phone? I really need to text my mom, but mine ran out of battery. I’m so late and all she needs is another reason to hate ballet.”
He hands me his cell. I shove the rest of the bar in my mouth.
“Thank you.” I fire off a text and give it back.
“Your mother, she hates ballet?”
“Well . . . it’s more that she hates it for me. She wants me to be this independent, modern woman. So cooking, cleaning, dancing—things traditionally done by women—she doesn’t want me to do.”
“A lot of famous chefs are men,” he points out.
“A chef runs an entire restaurant. My mom might be OK with that. But she never even taught me to cook. She didn’t want me anywhere near the kitchen.”
“Wait”—he lifts a hand—“you don’t know how to cook?” His eyes widen like I told him I was born on an alien planet and have five heads and a crocodile mouth. It makes me laugh again.
I lean over and whisper, “Actually, I kind of taught myself. Online cooking shows.”
He lets out a huff that must be his version of a chuckle. “So why do you dance? If your mother doesn’t want you to?”
I’ve been asked before why I dance. No one’s ever asked the despite-my-mom part. I don’t advertise that. Parents are supposed to be supportive of their kids.
I shrug. “I love the discipline. I love that if you work hard, if you do what they tell you, you’ll improve and your teachers will be pleased. It’s predictable. Also, I love that I can lose myself in dance. How everything except my body and the music just melts away. I can be flying across the stage, grand jeté to pirouette to grand jeté, my heart pounding, my muscles screaming at me that they can’t possibly do one more leap. And then I don’t do one more—I do five more, perfectly executed, and my teachers give me a smile. Yeah. It’s pretty incredible.”
Alex is smiling like he was in the audience in my mind just now. “You like being on stage.”
He’s right. I like being seen, being recognized for my hard work. I rise and, using the bar for support, lift my leg into a slow développé. A few heads turn to watch me. And, I can’t lie, I like it. “My mom says I shouldn’t want to be defined by what I look like,” I tell him, coming back down into deep plié.
Alex’s eyes are everywhere but on me—the floor, the ceiling, the other passengers. “Maybe you should tell your mother you want to run the ballet. Maybe then she’d be happy for you.”
“The artistic director. I’d love to do that. Usually only former male principal dancers get the job though.”
Alex shakes his head like possibly my mom is right about ballet. I don’t want him to think that. I want him on my side.
“Maybe I’ll tell my mom I want to be the first solo female artistic director of the New York City Ballet.” I say this even though I know I could never confront her. Just thinking about it makes me tired.
“What is it that you like about baseball?” I ask at the same time he says, “You’re sure you don’t want all of this?” He holds up his untouched half of the protein bar.
“We had a deal.” I wave at him to start eating. “Why baseball?” I ask again.
Alex takes a bite. He chews slowly. “I’m good at it. My friends play.” He tucks the wrapper from the bar into his pocket.
“Your dad likes that you play, right? The one who lives in Brooklyn?”
His brow lifts like he’s surprised I remembered. “Yeah.” He picks up the mitt. “You into baseball?”
He’s redirecting. I’m familiar with the move, especially when parents come up.
“No, not really.” I’m embarrassed to tell him this. I mean, I’ve been to a few Yankees games. But that’s about it.
He bends the mitt, working the leather. He looks like he’s about to say something else but he doesn’t. The hair at the base of his neck is wet. The collar of his shirt is damp. He must be coming from practice. I’m sweaty too. I realize I’m staring at him. I’m not sure if he knows because he’s smiling down at his mitt, like the glove is whispering jokes to him. I pull my gaze away to a poem on the wall. They’re all over the subway cars, a citywide attempt at making culture accessible to the everyday New Yorker. I squint, trying to make out the words.
“‘Windswept.’” Alex reads the title for me. He reads the first sentence. Then the next. And the next. Only, he’s not reading it. His eyes are on mine as the words tumble out of him. He recites the entire poem.
“You know that by heart?”
He shrugs. His knee swings back and forth.
“It’s beautiful,” I tell him. “Thank you.”
His leg stops moving. “You like poems?”
“Yeah. It’s like music. Or art. Or dance.”
His mouth looks like it’s about to smile. His lips remind me of our kiss.
I lean back, tucking a foot under me. “Hey, you want to play a game?” I’ve got to stop staring at him. When I do, it feels like we’re the only two people on the train.
He coughs then clears his throat. “What kind of game?”
“Just something to pass the time. I make up a story about someone around us and you have to guess who I’m talking about.”
“OK.” He puts the mitt away. He turns to face me. It’s hard to think when he’s looking at me like that.
“My cats don’t like it when I leave them in the apartment alone. It’s not like I’m gone that long—only the four or five hours it takes to hit my favorite stores. I can’t help myself. The word sale is like a drug to me. But I bring them treats, so they don’t stay angry for long.”
Alex is giving me his you’re-an-alien look again. Maybe it’s because of the Boston accent I used.
He scans the car. He tilts his head toward the woman with all the bags. “Her.”
“Yup.”
“You really think she’s a cat lady?” He studies the woman. “She looks more like a dog lady to me.”
“Your turn,” I say through my laughter.
His gaze sweeps away from me. “I’m tall, but I hate basketball. I’m into golf. I grab every chance to take my convertible out of the city to my club where my golf friends and I stand around in V-necks and drink martinis.”
I’m covering my mouth, trying not to lose it. He sounded like a British guy who swallowed a frog. “Wow . . . That’s—um—pretty good for a first-timer.”