It's a date.

The young teenaged lovers were on the subway this morning. She was wearing her pistachio green overcoat. He was sporting a crop of red blemishes on his chin. They teetered an arm length apart, their heads within inches of one another. She was carefully wording a sentence he struggled to catch. She mouthed it three times, four. The edges of his lips curled as she realized he knew perfectly well what she was saying, he just wanted the excuse to look at her for this long, this closely. She cuffed his arm with the back of her hand.

"Christmas is coming."
"Christmas is coming."
"Christmas is coming."
"Christmas is--you idiot!"

He smiled that half-smile; something he saw in a film. Unless at such a young age, he really will turn out to be a sexy man, an attentive man, a purposefully sexy and attentive man. His smile drew me in and he saw me. He turned the smile on me and I blushed, turning to face my reflection in the door; yes, standing in the door. Caught on two counts.

She continued, "This Saturday? We'll do it this Saturday."

I'd missed the rest of the conversation. I suspect they're going shopping. Which is to say, that in the Saturday crush, their hands will most certainly brush, they'll share food court poutine, he'll offer to carry her bag from the Disney Store, and they'll stand face-to-face on the escalator, their first kiss floating towards ground level.

(She held a book, her finger holding her place. I couldn't see the cover. But, let's face it, if I could hardly concentrate, we can't blame her. See the next post for more of the same ol', same ol'.)