Dubious Reality, A Guy On The Train, Or Those Crazy Israelis

Out of all the days in my life, it happened to be that particular day, when unbeknownst of God's funny plan to make a joke, I was returning home on LIRR after a long and busy day at the hedge fund and a couple of drinks in the afterhours. Needless to say my hair resembled my nerves, sticking into all directions of my head in a distinct image I sell to my friends as poetic indifference. My face was infused with deep wrinkles from lack of sleep, hedge fund innuendos and hard liquor. All I could think of, while hiding from the remnants of human life on the train represented perhaps by one or two careless strangers who were either asleep or more drunk than I was - was getting home, to my bed and out and beyond the radar of civility.

And then it happened. The doors of the train opened and in walked the most handsome piece of meat I have seen in ages. He was atrociously young and well built, with the head full of silky flowy hair, grey piercing eyes and lips like oceans to fall in, never to be found again. As strange as fate would have this human show up on the eleventh hour of my day, the stranger part was that our eyes met and locked as he sat down not too far from me. What happened next, was indeed even stranger. The "walking steak" appeared to be genuinely interested in me and continued to stare. A minute went by, then another. In this mind bugling experience, the universe decided to stop the time and allowed my indulgence to continue in a timeless fashion, from one station to the other, with the stranger deeply piercing me without a second's rest. Don't get me wrong. I know my worth. I have lived long enough on this planet to know that I am highly attractive and can be desired given the right mood, light and alcoholic beverage. But this guy was seriously out of my league plus he was totally checking me out from head to toe in a fashion only experienced at a doctor's office. The nerve, ladies!

Perhaps five minutes went by if I were to estimate and I began to feel utterly uncomfortable, terrified if he were to approach me and give me a heart attack from such unearthly arousal. And then, when I could no longer encompass that piercing glance, when my drool fell off my mouth onto my shoe and my breathing turned into spasms, "the walking steak" slowly got up and began to move in my direction. When my heart began to pound and I feared it could be heard by everyone on the train, he sat next to me, smiled, extended his business card and spoke in a horrid Hebrew accent: "Eeeh, your face needs a peeling. And my company is the best. Please don't hesitate to call." He stayed a bit longer, explaining how my zits and pimples enhance the blackheads that apparently can be noticed from the beginning of the train and left, somewhere before Manhattan turned to Queens.

And that was that. Five minutes, eleven seconds of earth's most drooling experience followed by a realization of the fact that not only am I not good enough to attract a hot guy from Manhattan, but that turns out my face stood out there in the middle of a train like a stop sign. As I crumbled his business card with the force of a mad cat, I thought to myself how intuitive I always am to know when someone is too hot or too interested, like in the wisest of sayings, if something is too good to be true, it always is.