By Design

I'm in the city, commuting. On my way. Swallowed by a swarm of people, leaving work. Coming and going. Heading places. Some home, some to friends, others to lovers.

I’m here - downtown - I've made it.

I choose my own pace, the crowd becomes a blur in my peripheral vision as I focus on turning pages of a half-rolled magazine in my hand. My pointed leather flats click against the pavement while I propel forward, dodging anyone who slows down a step. I decide to dog-ear a page - an advertisement featuring a lion elegantly sprawled over a pile of rugs, patterned corners peeking out.

It turns out - dog-earing the pages of a magazine while walking through a crowded street in the city during the after-work commute is a foolish thing to do. Someone crashes into me, half of him into half of me. The crowd separates around us, a woman gasps, I hold my breath. We face each other, he is heading where I came from, but now - we occupy the same space.

“Sorry!”

I bend down to scoop up my magazine, the pages fluttering in the wind. The man’s hand clutches mine, even while I crouch he’s already down at my level, looking into my eyes. I decide to abandon the magazine, push up, become vertical again and do what I can to slip back amongst the people.

“Wait a second - wait - your magazine -“ he insists on picking it up for me, crushing the corner with the toe of his shoe to keep it from getting kicked into the crowd. He even manages to straighten the dog-eared page.

“Oh -“ I decide it’s a good time to be bashful, “thanks,” and blush.

The magazine is back in my bag, lumped in with my rolled up drawings, $7.42 in loose change, an unwrapped peppermint, a business card folded over a wad of chewed gum, and my dead cell phone.

“There’s ads on the buildings you know,” he laughs, and turns the other way.

A smile spreads across my cheeks, suddenly stinging with delighted embarrassment.

There’s already ads on the buildings.

Sure - but I was reading the really small captions, with the name of the designers who sourced the fabric for the re-upholstered antique armchairs. I take a few steps, before turning around to get a good look at him again. I expect he’s well on his way, but am surprised to find him standing still - eyes on me. We've both turned to take that last look. I toss a wave towards him, before turning again, treading forward towards the train in the other direction.

By the time I push through the turnstile, I’ve replayed the scene in my head a dozen times. I wish I had pressed a business card into his hand. He touched my elbow. He held my hand. He picked up my magazine. I wish my phone was not dead so I could squeal to my girlfriend - a man picked up my magazine. A man in a black suit just bumped into me, sent my magazine flying and squeezed my hand so I couldn’t get away, then rolled up my magazine and tucked it into my bag, next to my drawings from work.

I need it to happen again. Will I see him again tomorrow? Should I get a book to hold in my hand instead? Buy or rent? Fiction? Self help?

As soon as I get off the train I run home to plug in my phone. I sit on my bed, waiting for the phone's revival. I enter my password and frantically click the phone icon but, instead of calling anyone it just flashes white and then black again. I have to keep waiting.

Urging myself to get a grip, I shut my eyes tight and grimace. Perhaps when I open them - it'll be a different calendar day and this will all be over.

I go out onto the balcony for a cigarette. Maybe he’ll pass by my apartment. Maybe he’ll see me and recognize my outfit and throw a rose up to me and ask, “Will you let down your hair? I mean - have dinner with me?”

I hear a rustling at the door and toss my cigarette into a tin can before running inside to fling it open.

“Diana!” I shout, “Diana! A man held my hand!”

“Liza…” her hands full of very practical items - groceries and a lanyard hanging from the last joint of her crooked pinky, “can you grab a bag?”

“I bumped into a man in front of a building that has a fancy bank inside. With the colorful glass flowers on the wall. And the escalator you know that fancy building?”

“Did he propose?” She laughs while putting food in the fridge.

I hand her $40 from my wallet.

“No! He picked up my magazine! He un-crinkled one of the pages that I had purposefully crinkled!”

Diana begins unpacking a bag of apples into a ceramic bowl on the counter. I take it she is not convinced anything exciting actually happened.

“Diana this is the best day of my life!”

“Maybe we should get a drink?” She shrugs.

“No I’m going to lay on the ground in my room and stare at the ceiling and sigh about how much love I’m in.”

“Liza - He’s not even real at this point it was all just a figment of your imagination.”

Suddenly I hear a buzzing sound - coming from my bag, contents already half-spilled across the coffee table from when I dropped it there upon entering. I flip the bag upside down, surprised to find a phone that isn't mine, vibrating - a 312 number flashing across the screen.

“Hello!” I nearly shriek.

“Did you see any good ads on the way home?”

I open my mouth to speak but struggle to make up my mind about what to say.

“I’m - uh - who are you?” I hope I sound as romantic and breathy as I’m trying to sound.

“Oh nobody,” he says in a smooth voice, “who are you?”

The question I’ve been dying to answer my whole entire life with two words -

“Nobody too!” I say while simultaneously swallowing every urge to burst out laughing.

I hang up.