She noticed him not because he was extraordinary, but because he seemed always to be there. Just over there, on the platform opposite. An ordinary-looking man, pleasant but nondescript — ordinary. Ash-blond hair that was thinning, a fact he made no effort to hide; spectacles that complemented his features well: dark frames that set off the shape of his eyes and nose; and while not athletic, his physique could be described as “trim” rather than “average.” This was a man who made an effort — an imperfect effort — to take care of himself. His train pulled in, and she watched him through the window. He didn’t look for a seat but stood near the door — she supposed so he could exit more quickly. The approach of her own train interrupted her reverie. She crossed the car and stood by the door; his face gazed back at her, his body and head jerking in opposite directions when his car lurched out of the station.

The next morning he was there again, and again the next. Then the weekend. On the Monday, she caught an earlier train — she had to finish preparing for a meeting and, somehow, arriving at work an hour early was less offensive to her than spending even a moment of her personal time at home. This day the trains appeared in the opposite order, and so it was she whose head lurched left when the train pulled out, while he stood and smiled at her. The event stirred her up inside for longer than it ought. She tried to imagine all the reasons his schedule so perfectly matched hers. Early meeting? Finish work left undone since Friday? It was disconcerting and she could find no satisfactory explanation, especially when the rest of the week unfolded much as the previous had: she arrived at her usual time, he was in his usual place, and they both took their usual trains, watching each other curiously through two sets of windows.

There came a day — a Monday, it was — in midsummer when she descended to the platform and he was nowhere in sight. She walked the length before assuming her customary post. She felt oddly abandoned — there had been something comforting about seeing him there, no matter which train she took. When she was early, he was there. Running late? He was, too. He had become part of her routine, part of her day, and so when he did not show on that Monday nor Tuesday nor the rest of the week she felt her rhythm interrupted, and was all out of sorts.

On the next Monday he was back — he had grown his beard, she noticed, and noticed too how well it suited him, made him appear younger despite the salt-and-pepper shading. As their trains passed she cocked her head to one side: Where were you? “I’ve been away,” he mouthed at her, and raised a hand in greeting. From then on they smiled at each other as they moved, each morning, in opposite directions.

On the night when she had to work late, she thought she saw his back disappearing up the stairs as her train pulled in. When the doors opened she raced out of the car and up to the street, trying to spot him. She walked home, disappointed, and while she drank her evening tea began to imagine what he might be like. Her upstairs neighbor clattered noisily past her door, and for a moment she thought there might be a knock — that it might be the subway stranger. Over the months she had made a study of him, both from afar — platform-to-platform — and at closer range, across the two feet and two windows that separated them on their separate trains. HIs hair had thinned since her first observation, and she wondered momentarily if he had grown the beard in compensatory defiance. “No,” she said, rather too forcefully. “It looks good, and he knows it.” Then she looked around her kitchen uneasily, because she had said it aloud.

She imagined his long fingers enclosing her hand, or pulling her face towards his. Though he was not powerfully built there was power that emanated from him, power that she sensed, power that she felt more as the distance between them closed. She realized then — consciously, for the first time — that she felt an enormous and inexplicable attraction to this man, this stranger. He was in her life, but only a peripheral character. She wanted more, she was sure of it. That night she dreamt of his long fingers dancing across her body, exploring in ways she had not ever imagined.

The following Monday she pushed through the turnstile as usual, stood in her usual place, and glanced across the tracks as usual. The spot he should have occupied was empty. She turned this way and that, walked the length of the platform as she had once before, but he was gone. She returned to find her spot occupied. The man’s back was unfamiliar, but the thinning hair was to her unmistakable. She made to touch his shoulder just as the train arrived and he stepped out of reach, with her following him into the crowded car. She stared at his back, separated from him now by a tourist family of five and a couple of women who had, by all appearances, tumbled out of bed in the same clothes they’d worn tumbling into bed the night before. She wondered how long ago they had met, and whose apartment they’d stayed in. She strained to hear their conversation over the track noise; when the train arrived at her stop the two women were still tightly engaged, the family had spread out, and the stranger stood with his back to her still. The doors closed behind her, and something made her turn and look — he was staring out at her now, his hand raised in a friendly salute. That night she dreamed again of his long fingers, surer and more intimate now, teasing her body to ever-higher waves of pleasure, while his limbs entangled hers. She felt the rasp of his beard against her skin; she felt his tongue melt into hers. She woke with a start and spent the rest of the night replaying the dream.

Sleep-deprived, she stumbled through the next two days. The routine — for it had become the new normal — varied little. She boarded her train, espied him through the door when she left it, and dreamed vividly of him each night. On Thursday someone jostled her when the train lurched away from the stop. She turned and he was smiling at her, his free hand raised in greeting. “Good morning,” he mouthed, and she wished she could hear his voice over the track noise. “Good morning,” she said and smiled back — until a group of children on a day-camp trip swept her further into the car and away from him. She scowled at them and was ill-tempered the rest of the day.
In the evening she decided to walk at least partway home: it was one of those rare summer nights with low humidity and a perfect breeze, the warm sun hanging above the horizon and refusing to sink below the Palisades. She wore a sleeveless cotton dress and a light sweater, stylish flats that were perfect for walking but still office-appropriate. In her large sunglasses she felt, just a little bit, like Audrey Hepburn. The walk was energizing but she felt suddenly hungry and stopped in a restaurant she had been wanting to try, tables spilling out onto the sidewalk. She took a seat outside and was presented with a menu and a glass of wine. Confused, she asked the server if it was customary to deliver an unordered drink — was it complimentary, and why?

“No, miss,” the girl replied shyly. “Um, the man inside — gentleman inside — asked me to bring it.” She gestured towards the bar, where her subway companion sat, ramrod straight, watching the proceeding unfold. She beamed, mouthed “Thank you!” and took up the menu. She peeked over the top and saw that he had turned back to the bar, and seemed to be engaging with the young woman on the next stool. She kicked herself for not inviting him over — now, she thought, it was too late. She ordered the seared scallops and another glass of wine. When the server left she heard his voice in her ear: “Aren’t you going to invite me to sit down?” Quiet, reassuring, playful. She thought she caught a slight note of hurt, too, but couldn’t be sure and would never ask him, even years later.
“Oh!” she said, and turned to look. He was, she thought, more handsome than she had realized. “Of course! Please, sit. Have you eaten? I’ve only just ordered —“ His smile cut her off, as he took the seat opposite at the small table. The server reappeared to set his place and he murmured something to her.

“I ordered at the bar, they’ll bring it here instead,” he explained.

“Oh!” she said again, and reprimanded herself for sounding so uninteresting. “It’s just — I’m sorry I didn’t ask — thank you for the drink,” she slowed herself down, giving herself time to both think and articulate clearly. “I saw you talking to that girl at the bar, so I thought — .“

Again his smile cut her off. “Just a girl who happened to be at the bar. I was asking her if she could recommend anything on the menu.”

“Could she?”

“Tourist,” he said simply. “She’s never been here before, and from what I could gather isn’t likely to be back.”

She didn’t know what to make of this, so she smiled and sipped her wine. The talked about her work, and his new job — and the change in his commuting routine. They talked about summer weekends in the city, and Shakespeare in the Park, and the productions they’d seen but hadn’t cared for, and the ones they’d wanted to see but hadn’t. When they noticed the server hovering — most of the other diners had long since departed — they asked for the bill, which she snatched before he could put a hand near it.

“It’s my table,” she said playfully, “and you’re my guest tonight. Besides, you bought the first round of drinks. He smiled and tilted his head slightly in acquiescence.

They decided to walk the rest of the way. The night air was warm and at that hour the traffic was light and posed no danger to pedestrians. They continued their mealtime banter, holding hands while they walked up the avenue, tugging each other towards particularly odd shop windows or bus shelter advertisements. Finally, on her stoop, he kissed her.

“What have you been waiting for?” she said. But only to herself as she kissed him back fervently, almost needfully, her arms locked together around his neck while his hands roamed her back, finding every curve beneath the dress. Coming up for air she motioned him to say nothing, but took his hand to lead him upstairs.

Inside the door he pulled her closer to him, scooping her up by the ass while she wrapped her legs around his hips. Their mouths, hungry despite their leisurely meal and postprandial stroll, crashed together again. They sought and found the deepest recesses for exploration, tongues dancing against each other. He pushed the door closed with his foot and in three strides was across the kitchen where he planted her firmly on the table. She remained upright, their hips grinding together while their hands made unfamiliar ground, familiar. Her fingers fumbled with his shirtfront, the buttons resisting easy passage through the starched holes. He bunched her skirts at her waist and tore free her panties, pastel boy-shorts erotic in their incongruity: it was not the undergarment he’d have expected, had he given it any thought at all. She kicked off her shoes and pressed her hands against his chest, exploring his ribs and abdomen. She watched his face carefully, noting the subtle changes when she repeatedly touched him just there, or there.

She raised her head and closed her lips around his exposed nipple, sucking gently and thrilling at the way he gripped her ass harder when her teeth grazed him. She bit down, gently at first and then with force, and he thrust two fingers into her drenched slit with such force that she had to unlatch and drop her head back onto the table, focusing on the ways his hands found her secret places, the ones her idealized but imaginary lovers would probe and tease for hours. She hadn’t fully admitted them to herself and had never shared with anyone what she truly desired. They never had exchanged more than a glance on the subway before tonight; and now he was in her kitchen, devouring her every secret desire and pouring it back into her. He seemed to simply know.

He dragged her dress over her head and roughly tugged at the brassiere clasp, brushing the discarded garments to the floor. She was now fully nude, her puckered areolae winking at him in the light of a warm city summer night that came spilling through the open window. He was only dimly aware of the conversations of her neighbors, and the sounds of the Santeria-voodoo practitioners in the nearest park, three blocks down the street. She reached for his belt and he bent his head to her breast, nipping her with his teeth to encourage her. He drove his fingers deeper into her, stroking her G-spot. At the same instant he bit down harder and she moaned and arched her back, pulling his fingers deeper still and making very clear what she liked, what she wanted, what she needed most.

Without disengaging his fingers he was abruptly on his knees, inhaling her scent and enjoying the feel of her close-cropped quim against his lips, his tongue circling her clitoris while he stroked her. She sat up and he took her wrists in his hands — he sensed that she would have grabbed his head to push him farther, hold him where she wanted, but he wanted to control her pace, slow her. He sensed her need, and sensed that as much as she wanted relief she needed him to brake the release, allow her a cascade of small explosions first. She was ravenous; and he wanted to make her even hungrier. He breathed deeply, filling his lungs with her, and sucked on her hood, exhaling slowly between gentle pulls, all the while gripping her wrists tightly and immobilizing her hands.

He stood suddenly, partly to stretch his legs but mostly to see her face, to watch her body change with the ebb and flow of pleasure. He let go her wrists and she was immediately at his waistband again, unfastening and unzipping and stroking. She pushed his pants to the floor impatiently, and while he stepped out of them she slid off the table and took him in her mouth, first wrapping her arms around him to pull him closer and then, remembering the sounds he had made earlier, reaching up with one hand to caress his chest. He closed his eyes, felt her hand on his face; the hand was gone a moment, then came back to his cheek, her thumb traced his lips. It tasted of her.

He took her wrists again, stretching high above her head, forcing her to abandon her oral ministrations and rise to her feet. He folded her arms behind her back, the bent his head and kissed her. He felt her entire body react: muscles stiffened in anticipation, nipples hardened against his chest, feet shifted slightly apart to open her legs, open herself, to him. His one hand, far larger than hers, gripped both of her wrists, while his other hand stroked her mons, long fingers easily parting her labia and slipping inside again. He felt her knees begin to buckle and lifted her back onto the table, his fingers gaining even deeper entry as she spread her knees wide for him.

He pressed the head of his cock against her, guiding it with his slickened fingers. He stood again to look at her and touched her cheek with his hand, pressing his fingers to her lips so she could suck and taste herself. Slowly, slowly, he pushed forward, deeper, pressing two fingers into her mouth while his other hand ranged over her body, fingertips memorizing the new terrain of her breasts, her neck, the curve of her hip and the shape of her thigh. She forced her knees wider still, then wrapped her legs around him again and rose up to meet his lips with hers. She rose and fell, the motion of her hips in perfect counterpoint to his thrusts. Their mouths, until a short while ago complete strangers, found their pace and communicated in a perfect, unknown language of lust and desire.

Outside the window the drumming from the Santeria grew louder, or seemed to, and they adjusted their rhythm to the music flowing in from the summer night. It grew more frenzied, and their tongues and hips swayed and wagged more furiously. They were close — he moved a hand between them and pressed his fingers against her clit, feeling her tense and tighten around his cock which each sideways stroke or gentle brush against her hood. The drums rose to a crescendo just as he came, throwing his head back when he did. His moaning cry was too much for her and her orgasm enveloped his, her muscles clamping down on his cock as if she wanted to pull another climax from him. He collapsed on top of her, kissing her softly. They said more to each other with the silent little touches of their hands than in all the dinner-time conversation.

Slowly they scraped themselves off the kitchen table, and he carried her — legs still around his hips — to the bedroom. They slept for an hour, then rose to shower, rinse, and repeat.

Monday morning they descended to the subway platform hand-in-hand and boarded the train together. She noticed the two women glaring sulkily at each other from opposing seats at the end of the car, then pressed her face closer into her companion’s chest and warmed in his embrace.