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I see her every morning. Actually, every morning that I get to the Junction Blvd. elevated by 8:13 a.m. She is probably going to work. I think she is an advertising executive’s assistant account director or a mutual fund investment coordinator because she looks slightly conservative and yet stylishly casual.

Her handbags are the kind that always end with a vowel sound, like Gucci or Prada. Even the “s” in Hermes is silent. Friday, is when she can get a little funky. She might wear some high-end designer name brand clothing that advertises it’s manufacturer, but only discreetly. You know the initials of that New-Age Buddhist stockbroker lady from Long Island(dkny) or that colorfully homosexual Italian guy who was shot up in Miami(versace).

To complement her clothing my lady friend will flip her hairstyle also. I can see her transform a French curl, the standard weekday style, into jhiggy little Shirley Temple twists. I love when she changes the color in her hair. Light streaks of cherry or blond make me stare. Just to confirm in my mind that it’s her under those curls. Damn, I almost looked for too long. I try not to offend my lady friend with too much eye contact. I would not want to frighten her away to another position on the platform or worse another time altogether. That would be devastating. I don’t know that I could build this passion, this amorous devotion with another woman other than her. What infatuates me the most about this particular woman is her shoes.

She must have at least ninty-one pairs of shoes in her closet. Business flats with the one and a half inch heel to back breaking four inch pumps. Riding boots, ankle boots and even cute little Timberland workboots. I pretty much know her shoe rotation too. She starts the week off rather slow. A pair of heeled loafers in black or brown. The following day may find me looking down at her square-toed calfskin boots. The ones with the stitched flap over the forefoot, and the stacked heel so high and flat that MY own back hurts just from looking at those boots.

Is it any coincidence that hump day is usually addressed in a set of heels with a shine so tight they look as if they are made of glass. Her funky walk up the subway stairs to the street allows me the chance to steal a glimpse at the bottom of her shoes. Sometimes the soles are so new that I can faintly smell the calfskin leather. Mmmm…

I’ll be honest with you and tell you why I love the summer so much. This woman will take me to my limit by wearing some strappy black sandals. They let her toes stand out, wrapped up by spaghetti thin leather. Her feet are strong and firm . They are tanned an exquisite bronze-copper blend. A simple anklet dangles. I flirt often with her feet. Sometimes they flirt back at me. Like that day she had on these thick- heeled, cream- coloured, peek-a-boo mules with a French polish on her toenails. The silver trim on top of the white edge of the the polish made every toe look as if they were all smiling right at me. I think I can remember blushing right then and there.

I see her every morning. Actually, every morning that I get on the E train at the sixth car, second set of doors. She is headed downtown to work. She isn’t going all the way down to Wall Street or the World Trade Center,maybe West Broadway. She looks too cool for the conformist confines of the financial district, yet she is to far too intelligent to be a receptionist in the Village. I love the way she folds her New York Times into this little rectangle so that you can’t read her paper. Or she will be completely absorbed by a paperback as she grips a handrail. Amidst the throng of commuters I can see her hands…

They are well manicured, delicate and feminine. The polish isn’t gaudy or garish. Most of the time it is just a clear coat. I even think that she was the first woman to wear those metallic tones. The fingernails are not long either. She must do some kind of work because her nails are a responsible length. I have also taken note that this young woman does not over accessorize. A ring, a bracelet, a watch is the most she may wear.

I picture her to be an earthy woman. Not pretentious or super-materialistic. I try to imagine her smile when I give her a dozen long-stem roses. A flash of brilliance from perfectly angled teeth. Her parents knew well enough to get her braces when she was young. She laughs in an uninhibited manner at my cornball thoughts. She can even act interested when I discuss the stress and strain of the internal politics at my office. I always knew she was this beautiful inside, because of her feet. Her gifted, glorious feet and those appendages called toes.

I have never been so enamored with the curvature of a foot. The gentle radius of the ankle. The elliptical perimeter around the forefoot. The sublime arc at the instep. There is an undisclosed geometry that she has about her. When she wears her mahogany suede mini-heels and these opaque brown stockings, the shoes look almost tangent with her leg. The effect is like two long brown boots.

Going back to my mathematical reference helps me understand why I have never approached this young lady. She intimidates me, much like arithmetic does. I am scared that she will be as complex as calculus, and more importantly, I know I don’t have the right formula.

Who would want someone as incomplete and unattractive as me? Not this fine young lady. But maybe, just maybe she is interested in a project. Maybe she has conquered all the obstacles in her male dominated world and she is ready to accept the challenge of creating a man that can provide her with all of the necessary requirements that she desires in a partner.

Maybe she will just let me clean her shoes? That is all I could ask for. One chance to give her fuzzy nubuck wedge the buffing of a lifetime. I would use my tongue to touch her soft, supple sole, until it found satisfaction from my action.

Lexington Avenue arrives so suddenly that I barely have time to gather my thoughts and my belongings. I make my way to the Uptown local train’s platform. My timing is impeccable and I systematically scramble for the rear of the third car from the front. The time is 8:51 a.m.

I see her every morning. Actually, every morning that I ride the Eighth Avenue local….

This entry was posted on Tuesday, August 22nd, 2006 at 5:50 am and is filed under Black Bullshit, Fashion Faux Pas, Lust = Love, When I Reminisce.... You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.