A Duet of Balanced Motion

I feel just a little euphoric when I leave my comfy little group every Wednesday night. I can’t say what it is that does it; the conversations, the herbal teas, the energy of intelligent women, all of it crammed into my friend’s tiny flat in the Castro. Maybe we all feel like that when we leave. I don’t know. That’s not even the point. I worry too much about how others feel anyway – don’t lose the momentum, I tell myself as I walk to the Church Street MUNI, and head for the Powell Street BART for the trip home across the bay.

I am still abuzz with energy, as I settle into my seat, just across from an older woman and a younger, frustrated looking one. I smile at everyone on the train, but even more at the frustrated woman, simply because she seems so aloof, and because, even without the “gaydar” so highly touted in the community, she’s clearly one of my kind. She catches my smile and her glance lingers on my face just long enough that I know it registered; a tribeswoman. I find myself grateful for the world in which we live these days, when there’s the immediate recognition of like kinds. No muss, no fuss. After the silent acknowledgment she keeps looking around, and checking a crumpled, half-folded sheet of paper in her hand. The page looks limp and sweat-soaked. As I look at it, my gaze moves from the woman’s hand, to her face, and the fierceness of her furrowed brow. I’m not good with age so I wouldn’t presume to guess how old she might be. Her hair has the blondish cast of someone who spends a lot of time in the sun, she has a healthy glow with a look of capability about her.  

I wonder if I should ask whether I can help. I watch the woman’s eyes as they fix on the page, and as she shifts her gaze to the phone in her other hand, briefly before her eyes catch mine watching her when the train comes to a stop at the Montgomery Street station. I smile quickly, before I avert my eyes – just to let her know I’m friendly enough and that mine isn’t the stare of the rude, or crazy; these are the things one must time perfectly. A couple of new passengers board the train, one stands and holds onto the overhead rail, right in front of me. With the delicate connection between us interrupted, I can hear the younger woman asking the older one seated next to her if she can ask a question, but the older woman says she doesn’t speak English - in broken English. This situation itself feels broken now, everyone shutters in as we pull into the Embarcadero station, and I can’t find a good enough reason to try to help. I’m just trying to stay in the joy and radiate goodness into the universe – maybe it’ll reach her, but then who knows, maybe it won’t go any further than the pocket of the ass-end of the rip-off London Fog coat in front of me.

I can’t put her out of mind – which is odd, because, trust me, I have seen every variety of lesbian on public transportation in San Francisco before; nothing new there – yet, I find myself peering around the guy in front of me, since her silence now, after the abortive query, makes me wonder if she didn’t slip off to seek out information elsewhere. But, as I crane my head furtively over, I see her looking right back at me; her smile crooked and handsome. I chuckle to myself, and shrug – yeah, busted, still, my smile continues…there’s no way I’m going to feel ashamed for looking. And, at this moment, it’s all I can do – to watch from across this small distance, that might as well be as vast as the bay above us – because I’ll never have the nerve to do what my swaggering sisters would do, and slide on in, beside this woman, taking the bull by the horns and helping her out while securing her enduring affections and, perhaps at least one night of mutual, sparkling adulation.

No, that is not me. It’s so not me, in fact, that I take a mental tumble off the pedestal of my joy, spilling into a pile of uncertainty; stupidly looking around to see who this woman is really looking at. It is me after all, and I feel less stupid. The train clatters on, with my heart beating in time because I want something more than the quiet contentment that is stirring within me now; is it too soon to think that I want her hands upon me, her whisper on my cheek, her gaze to take me in and hold me there so that I can lose myself in the dark, shadow dappled depths? I want to feel something beyond what I took from my friend’s sofa not more than an hour ago. I can feel the want of these things rising up, filling the spaces where I would typically question this flash of attraction; drowning my reason on this journey beneath the bay. As we emerge from the tunnel on the Oakland side, I can pretend that I didn’t just see her cram the pesky piece of paper into her jacket pocket with a sigh, and then, let her fingers tickle over her thigh to rest near the inseam of her jeans. I’ll pretend that I didn’t see her brow furrow again, and her head rock back delicately, as her eyes close briefly, and the invitation to look openly at her is signaled with a gentle movement of her index finger. But I didn’t. Pretend, I mean. I took her in, a good, long look that was a visual embrace; a hard crash of her image across my brain, imagining she was all I would ever have, in this moment, and it is so true…she is. That she knows it, is evident as well, as she opens her eyes again, their melted chocolate so sweet and dark that I can almost taste it.

There is a dance of deliberation, and question, smack in the aisle of this train; nuanced and volatile as anything I have ever felt that wasn’t rational. What am I going to do? Be something I’ve never been before and not even marvel at the moment? Doubtful, well, at least as for being something I’ve never been before. But to marvel, oh yes! My God, she is magnificent, gloriously nonchalant in half-relaxed submission to the chaotic elements manifested in the wake of her prior frustrations. My eyes are surprised by the welling of tears caused by the dazzling display of her grandeur, and I blink them hastily back, looking down, at my phone – a most convenient tool for diversion as I consider the facts. Because, hey, isn’t she taking me in the same way? How has it become so easy for me to see myself outside these intricacies? How did I learn to be invisible, and yet shine like a fiery example of emptiness?

As we arrive at the 12^th Street station, the messiest of tangled bay area line transfers and a metaphor, I think; this is not how it should end. Not my extended joy, or a perfectly good trip. An entire epoch has passed me by in the 30 minutes since this began, and time that feels this deliciously slow in its passing must be savored, if it cannot be fully consumed. We’re both still here. My stop will be the Ashby station, and that’s three quick stops up the line. So, though it isn’t my usual practice, I decide to stand as other passengers board the train, seeking seats, I step forward, just across the car, and as near to her as I dare, and not be totally fucking obvious. I can see the quick quirk of her smile, as I pull my phone from my pocket and wrap my arm around the vertical rail, obvious in every way that I can be. My position is such that I can hold my phone and look beyond it to watch her surreptitiously. She, on the other hand, boldly looks my way with a mildly exasperated expression. It’s as if her entire demeanor has taken on the qualities of a stopwatch with our time left in this rattling capsule enumerating and racking up in a hurry. She has an air of shifting quantities, seeking a balance that is evasive.

I know, sadly, that I will not say anything to her; won’t take the lead. It’s just not in my nature, and besides, I believe the moment for that engagement has passed, and the joy that sustained me was still lacking impetus to propel me beyond my comfort zone. I really wish she would grab the reins here; see me for my subtle, endearing qualities, and (hopefully) not a lack of interest. Or too much interest, thinking on it. I really wish that I had balls…metaphorically speaking, to make the connection, because we don’t have long now. The 19^th street station is behind us, with a shift of passengers, and the train car emptier at each stop. Like my resolve.

It’ll be okay, I know it. I’ll find a piece of paper and a pen. I’ll write my number down for her and give it to her before one of us leaves the train. What am I, a moron? I don’t have a pen on me, or paper…so, what am I going to do, just yell my phone number at her? If I had to guts to do that, I wouldn’t be going through the machinations of subterfuge. I’d just do it, but I won’t.

Two more stops – if I’m lucky. What does that even mean? It implies that if some magic switch is flipped in the next few minutes, everything I have ever been will change on these rails, but no, because nothing, short of life or death decisions changes like that. That’s a small, fleeting comfort. I am really torn just now, in a pivotal moment, where I’m seriously not worried too much about what others think, for once in my life, certainly not here, in this transitory space. And yet, looking down at her, as we arrive at MacArthur station, my senses are tingling with an electric anticipation; a shock that amplifies, watching her shift forward in her seat as she prepares to rise.

Face to face now, with maybe two inches between us. The acknowledgement lingers, hanging in the balance. There is nothing but the squeal of the wheels on the rails to reflect the craziness I feel deep in my inwardly shrieking soul.

“Find what you needed?”, I croak awkwardly, the words tasting sour and mushy in my mouth, while at the exact same moment, she speaks too, half apologetically, “This isn’t that difficult.” We step back, apart, and simultaneously say “What?” as the doors close and the train moves on, up the line. I decipher what she said. She is probably spot on in her assessment, and I give her points for the frankness I lack, with my uninspired, flat query and yet, as the BART train clatters on, and we remain, like islands on opposite sides of a churning channel, I can only hope there’s more to come before the next stop puts an end to it all. Forever. I know my face is flaming, like guilt or shame – neither of which I feel, and I feel my heart pounding in my throat, as the train squeaks up to my stop.

So, she didn’t seem to get the answer she needed; riding on, quiet and sober, her eyes shaded, in self-absorbed reflection. Join the party, sista, I know exactly how you feel. The crackly energy that raced in my veins has calmed, as I move toward the door of the train car. She is there as well, near the door, a far away look, almost bereft, but who can tell. If I knew anything, I’d know how this should end. Then, suddenly, I do.

With the blood pulsing in my head like the roar of a tigress in my ears, I heed the rising of a phoenix in my belly; stirred to action amidst the small scattering of humanity around us, I can believe that nothing at all is more human than the miracle of connection, so, I am not afraid, as I reach out to her, and grab the lapels of her jacket, bringing her attention to bear fully upon me. She is not alarmed, and in fact, she smoothly grasps my own jacket, just below my ribs, closing the contact as the doors open in a blast of air and platform ambiance; we are thus bound.

I want to say that my intention was to kiss her, and I knew, in that moment, it wouldn’t have surprised her a bit, but as I folded her into my embrace, and felt her arms close about my waist, I knew the kiss would be an empty promise, to both of us and I surely didn’t mean that. So, instead, I held her close, like my life depended on it, then let go, suddenly, with a backstep off the train, saying “This isn’t our time, but next time, it will be.”, the phoenix flamed and flew, up, up, up; the ashes scattered to the horizons of my soul as I was consumed with joy, even as the doors closed her within the train car, her smile blazed across our moment; and her nod, slight, but unmistakable, promised a future that can’t be counted upon.