Head buried in The New Yorker is not the norm for my morning commute on the Q, but I recently subscribed and am quite enjoying my quiet time with the articles each morning. It seems more productive than staring at random people as I internally bee-bop to the Broadway tunes in my earbuds.
Second stop in, and I’m fully engaged, oblivious to the world around me. So I just shrug and pull my jacket toward my leg when I see a masculine finger pointing toward it. Apparently it’s an inch or so onto the seat next to me. Whatever.
As I scan back through my article looking for where I left off it occurred to me that was a nice looking hand. My curiosity has been piqued. I look to my right to see a very handsome man by my side. And then I go back to my reading.
Two more stops and he’s off. No longer can I focus on reading as I’m thinking about how good-looking he was. Then it occurred to me that I didn’t need to move my jacket for him to comfortably sit down. There was ample space. This was a missed opportunity to strike up a conversation with a hot guy on my morning commute. All because I had my head buried in an article. Maybe I’m not as productive with all this reading after all. My love life is suffering.