They're in early high school. I can tell because of the lack of hair on his face and the fact that his lady clears him by at least 5 inches, but he doesn't care. They are sitting next to each other holding hands, sharing a pair of earbuds between the two of them. She's casually glancing around the train as if to check to see people are watching.
He's smiling, glowing even.
He leans in and kisses her shoulder. She smiles slightly on the right half of her face and stares down at her feet. Her cheeks remain pale.
I fiddle around with my phone, immersing myself in my morning Facebook chat ritual with my best friend, congratulating her on her 8 year date anniversary with her husband. The temperature is supposed to break 30 in what seems like eternity. This winter has been cold. This city has more or less been cold, give or take a handful of pleasant moments. I'm willing to bet the people here keep their hearts tucked inside their overcoats, even when they hang them up for the warmer months.
But not this kid. He's exuding this soft morning comfortable like he already knows what it's like to wake up next to someone he really cares about. He reminds me of Neruda's poetry that is less sexy but more tepid. I start to think his girl is less interested until I notice how tight her hand is around his, her lavender veins stand out around her pure white knuckles. He pats her hand with his free one as if to console her. I want to tell him to hold on to that sweetness along as he can because the world is going to try it's best to take it from him. I want to tell his girl that it's OK for her to enjoy being adored.
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