Missed Connection: NYC Ferry, Astoria Route

I was the guy on the upper deck with the charcuterie board. You were the woman who slid over and asked why I brought so much meat and cheese on the ferry. I said, “I have a big meeting later, but my interns are sick, so I picked up the appetizers.” You said I was full of it. Then I said, “Try this prosciutto with gouda and grapes, and tell me I’m full of it.” You leaned in, and stopped, and asked if you would get me in trouble, to which I replied, “I live for trouble.” Then you laughed. You took a bite. You made a face like you had an orgasm. Then you said your name was Isabelle, and I said I was Felix. You asked how I knew you had a weakness for charcuterie, and I said, “Who doesn’t? It’s a world of possibilities on a single plate.” You said you never thought of it like that. Then you called me a nerd. We laughed, and I asked you to go on a date with me on dry land. You were about to say “Yes!” but then you got distracted by a tan line shaped like a ring wrapped around your finger. You said you were busy, but if I ever found myself on the ferry with another charcuterie board, you’d be happy to help me eat it.

Then you left.

The next day, I got on the upper deck with a new plate of meat and cheese. You were sitting in the same seat, looking at me with your hand covering your mouth like you couldn’t believe I actually did it. The two of us ate like royalty, gave ridiculous backstories to every passenger, and got so into it that we missed our stops. The moment you noticed, you shrugged and smirked, and whispered “Meet me in the bathroom in five minutes,” into my ear.

(That was the best make-out session I’ve ever had on public transit, by the way.)

It was the first time I saw you. Like, really saw you. I saw the bruises on your collarbone. There was make-up on them. My heart was pounding when I said, “Who did this to my Isabelle!?” But you just covered my mouth and stumbled through some story about being on the treadmill and your shoelaces came untied and you tripped. Before I could call you a liar, you changed the subject. You said you wanted to keep seeing me, but only on the condition that we never reveal our last names, jobs, phone numbers, addresses, or any personal information whatsoever. Most importantly, the ferry was the only place we were allowed to meet. It destroyed me. I thought the whole anonymous-make-out-sessions thing was incredible, but I thought it was the beginning of something real. I didn’t want to lose you, though. So, I just smiled and nodded. I felt like such an idiot. I should have told you the truth right then and there. I should have told you the first time I noticed you was a year ago.

You were sitting cross-legged on the upper deck in the rain. Your hair was wet. Your dress had flowers on it. Your eyes wrinkled a little when you smiled. I wanted to talk to you, but I didn’t know what to say. So, I kept my distance. I spent every commute imagining the places you and I would have dinner, the stupid things we’d fight about, and the sex we’d have to make up for it. Then, one day, I worked up the courage to finally do it. I stood up. I was on my way to your seat, but before I could tell you my name, somebody called your phone. So, I sat back down. I couldn’t help but overhear you were late for a dance recital, that Saturday was best for pickleball, and that four hundred degrees was the best temperature to reheat eggplant parmesan. It all sounded like typical married-woman stuff until something changed in your voice. You got quiet for a long time. You started flinching and stuttering like the person on the other line was yelling over you every time you tried to get a word in. When you hung up, your bottom lip was shaking. Your eyes were wet. You looked numb. I wanted to help you, but I didn’t know how. Then I saw you reach into your purse and pull out a travel magazine. The Western Europe Edition. Your smile grew every time you turned the page. It gave me an idea.

Charcuterie board.

German meat. Italian cheese. French bread. I could bring Western Europe to you through food. All I had to do was go shopping and make up a little story. You were right, by the way; I was “full of it.” There was no big meeting. No sick interns. I was just a guy on your ferry who wanted to make your day. And now every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, from 5:46pm to 6:22pm, I could do that. I could enjoy fresh charcuterie with you on the upper deck, pretending to live the life I always imagined for myself. But every commute had its end. And as I watched you leave the boat, I’d remember I was only borrowing this life, and I could never own it. I thought about that a lot, actually. Eventually, I realized I had to be in love with you, Isabelle. The problem was, I couldn’t have you. Or rather, I couldn’t have all of you. And I was one hundred percent certain you loved me, too. Our little secret was no longer enough. We needed more.

So, I found you on Google.

It took ten minutes. I found your full name, your home address, and everything else you never admitted to me. Then I went to your apartment to tell your son-of-a-bitch husband that you belonged to me, not him. But he didn’t answer the door. Nobody did. I kept pounding and yelling, “Isabelle!” over and over. But still, nobody answered. I was standing on a flowerpot, getting ready to climb through the window when your neighbor came out. She asked what I was doing, and I said I was looking for you. She said you weren’t home, and your husband wasn’t either. Apparently, you two were fighting all last night and he chased you out the door, and luckily, you got in the car and drove off before it was too late. She said he was shouting at you, calling you “horrible things” as you broke away from him. That was all she knew.

I was so relieved; so proud of you, Isabelle. I wanted to celebrate with a few fresh slices of Spanish chorizo and French baguette. I couldn’t wait to find you waiting for me, sitting cross-legged on the upper deck in that flowery dress I love so much. But you weren’t there. Instead, sitting in your seat was a saran-wrapped charcuterie board with a note taped to it:

Exploring my possibilities.

Thanks for the charcuterie,

Isabelle.

Seriously, Isabelle? Is that all I get? After everything we went through. You left New York without me, and you didn’t even bother to tell me where you were going? How am I supposed to protect you if I don’t even know where you are? I’m trying to save you, but you’re not letting me. First, you delete your Instagram. Then you disconnect your phone. I couldn’t think of any other way to reach you besides Craigslist. So, when you read this, message me here.

I promise I won’t be mad. I just want to talk.

You’re my world, baby.

<3 Felix