Preston and Danielle

No one said a word to one another except for these two. They were sitting far enough apart that they had to raise their voices to be heard, making it nearly impossible not to listen in.

Him: a self-assured, spray-tanned guy with a mini laptop and a classic douchebag haircut. Her: the kind of girl men are referring to when they say they like a woman with "meat on her bones" (a description I've always found somewhat alarming), a very pretty girl whose confidence was trying hard to measure up to his, who wore several earrings in each ear and had a spray tan of her own.

I caught them mid-conversation. "Kindergarten, huh? That's crazy," he said. "Alright, see, what you gotta do is just really stock up on that trail mix with the M&M's in it, kids LOVE that stuff."

"Oh yeah?" Her posture was casual and her eyes floated around his perimeter, only occasionally making contact with his.

"Seriously, I was all about that stuff when I was that age. What is it, four? Six? Yeah, but my kindergarten teacher would always bring it in for us and I'd just go for it, you know? I bet you don't believe this but I was seriously a chubby little guy."

"No."

"Seriously."

"So, trail mix?"

"Really, I just went for the M&M's. I'd pick those out before anyone got to them."
Somehow, I had no trouble believing this. I laughed and looked around the train; someone else HAD to be hearing this. But no, not the sleeping man, the nervous woman, or the couple that sat in silence, hands clasped.

When I looked back the girl was twirling a gold band in her fingers. "How come it was on the middle one?" she asked him, a new edge to her voice.

"It doesn't fit."

"Uh huh."

"Seriously."

She laughed, unsure, and gave him back the ring. The train made its way across a particularly noisy section of track and I didn't hear the words they exchanged as he slipped the ring back on. Something mildly humorous, a coy retort, then something outrageous enough to get her eyebrows up that high.

"Wow. I've never heard that one before." She didn't seem amused anymore but he didn't seem to be apologizing.

"Well, you're young. Give it some time, you'll hear worse than that."

"You're not that much older than me."

"I have a lot to learn too. Seriously, I didn't say I didn't."

"I've seen a lot, okay? Trust me, you have three kids you learn a thing or two."

He nodded, pretending he knew what she was talking about. Something told me these three kids were news to him. As shocking as his wedding band had been to her? Maybe.

What could it have been that prompted her to say, "I've never heard that one before?" What hadn't she heard? What hasn't she seen or lived through? This twenty-something mother of three with no wedding ring of her own and, by the looks of it, a vacancy she'd like to fill with a man. Even, perhaps, with a shaved-legged, Billabong-wearing, cocksure young urbanite on the train.

Maybe it was something simple and offensive like, "If it were up to me I wouldn't wear it at all." Or an attempt at something wittier: "Ironically, that's the finger I use most in my marriage," or "I only wear it to attract the ladies." Her strong reaction made me think it was something even worse. Maybe, "That's not the only thing of mine that's too big," probably followed by, "seriously."

The conversation soon turned down a less interesting road. Evidently he rarely rides public transit but his bike is in the shop. "I know you didn't ask, but I feel obligated to tell you: it's a Honda RVT 1000"

"Wow. How much did you pay for a bike like that?" Now it was my eyebrows' turn to raise at this surprisingly personal question.

"Nothing. Seriously."

"Hmm. Lucky."

And that was that. No questions, no clarification. The ambiguity hung in the air. The train pulled into the Arden/Del Paso station and he got up with a simple, "Wow, we got here FAST."

He would have to have a name like Preston, one that makes you question at first whether you're going to like him. And then, like the girl who was now looking more alone than the rest of the train's lonely passengers, you'd hear so much more than you wanted to hear that you're done asking any questions at all. There was a spring in his step and a wife waiting at home for him. She'd tell him about the voicemail message from the motorcycle shop: "It's gonna be a couple more days, looks like." He'd tell her he didn't really mind the train and she'd kiss him and run her fingers through his Ryan Seacrest hair.

"Meat on her bones" must have had a name like Danielle. She didn't resent how it lumped her together with thousands of other girls, girls without three kids at 23. And she never went by "Dani" or anything else. She reveled in both syllables, in the coveted femininity and normalcy they lent her. She was beautiful but I don't think she believes that. The earrings and tan weren't a testament to her self-esteem; they were a defense against any accusations to the contrary. Attention from a guy like Preston seemed to breathe life into her. I wonder if the kindergartners do the same.

Danielle didn't escape from their encounter quite so unscathed. It seemed the minute Preston disembarked she curled back up inside of herself, cuddling into the corner of her bench, facing forward, and marking the time until she too could get off of this train. Her arms were folded across her chest and she nervously ran this tips of her fingers back and forth across her lips.

"How sad," I thought, then looked down at my own folded arms and legs stretched out to discourage anyone from sharing my seat. Danielle seemed at every stop to look through the windows as if she were asking herself, "Should I get off here? Is this where I want to be?" Ultimately, she and I got off at the same stop and went our separate ways. She probably went home to her three kids that her parents helped her care for, fixing herself a sandwich and sitting down to watch the "Wiggles" DVD for the thousandth time.

She'd refer to Preston as a jerk or some even less savory name the next time she went out for drinks with her girlfriends. And the next time she put on the low-cut short brown dress with ties at the shoulders she'd prepare for, expect, even hope for another jerk to come along, at least for a few stops.