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He took the number nine going north uptown, following the stop at Behringer. After that she didn’t know where he went. All she knew is that for five months now, every Tuesday and Thursday evening between the hours of 5:15 to a little past 6:45, he had become her obsession. She road the rail daily to and from work, often wondering what he did on those missed three days. Did he work part time? Possibly. Did he work at all? Maybe he didn’t, but his briefcase suggested otherwise.

His presence inferred authority — demure and reticent, signifying responsibility of some kind. He was at all times dressed well, rarely casual. She took note of the days he sported a polo in place of a button down, or on the even scarcer occasion, jeans and sneakers. He at all times took the aisle seat, three rows ahead of her on the left, and she at all times sat in the center row that stretched entirely across the back of the train car. She had a perfect view of him from there. Just his user account and the back of his head, but it was enough to satisfy her during that half hour ride.

He never slept. Not once, despite her wish that he would doze off so that she may examine him further. And he at all times boarded late. In a way she was thankful, thinking it worse if she had to pass him. It was the only time he had a clear view of her, a small window where they faced one another, though she was sure he never looked, in spite of efforts for his attention.

A month in she began developing games to catch his eye. Coughing loudly as he neared his chair upon boarding. Purposefully dropping things in the hopes they’d roll his way during their ride. Dressing as provocatively as efficient while still remaining professional. Nothing seemed to work. Then again, perhaps he wasn’t interested. He didn’t wear a ring. He could have a girlfriend, she wondered. It was pretentious to think he’d notice her. She wondered herself nothing special.

At times she stared so intently that she was sure he’d feel her. Dark blue piercing into him from behind. She envisioned herself standing, approaching and mounting him without a word in his passenger chair, fucking him right there in the train in front of everyone present. It only worsened as weeks passed and her fantasies multiplied. She visualized the contents of the briefcase, imagining it filled with things—clamps, cuffs, gags, plugs, toys, keys to locks she’d be begging to have opened. She pictured numerous occupations and sexual scenarios around them. She was driving herself mad.

Once, she even dared to touch herself, her eyes boring into the back of his head as his neck bent to reading material he gripped with hands she wanted caressing her body. With no one else occupying the back set of rows, she slipped her fingers beneath her skirt, obscuring her lap with a messenger bag as her hand created tiny circles around the warm, dampened center at her thighs.

By the first week into July she decided she had to do something, had to disrupt the prosaic routine. What was the worst thing that could happen? Pleasantries would be exchanged, and they’d each go back to their ride in respectable silence.

The clock read ‘5:19’ as she boarded today. When she rounded the corner and started down the aisle she spotted him already seated. She glanced across to the chairs opposite his. Unoccupied, as they usually were. When she reached them she stopped, lingering a moment between the rows before tossing her bag onto the seat under the window and taking the aisle seat directly across from him. Too anxious to speak, almost too anxious to move, she just sat.

Surely he would notice her now.

NSFW: yes

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