That night she fell in love with a boy while she was waiting for her train.
He was sitting on one of those circular benches that are languidly dispersed along the platform, but what caught her eye was the copy of New Yorker in his hands. ‘A-ha,’ she thought, ‘there’s my opening, hipster boy.’
Tall, slim, all angles and 5-day face scruff. A welcome sight after working 12-hour days in shirtsleeves and spreadsheets.
She asked him if she could squeeze in by him on the bench, and he scooted gracefully to the left.
'Is that New Yorker? I think I'm reading the same issue.'
They commiserated over being behind on the magazine - back issues piled up on a beleaguered nightstand.
They sat a while longer, him focusing on an article, her sitting in contented silence, until his train pulled up.