I Sweat, You Glisten
Missed Connection in Manhattan
Subway spectrum by Lydia Brooks
Since I moved to this city where I am car-less and forced to walk places to get to a vehicle that will take me to the place I really want to go, every morning has been pretty much the same: I begin perspiring freely as soon as I get out of the shower.
(Why do I sweat after a shower, no matter how cold the water temperature is that I showered in?)
The sweating continues, and peaks when i stop moving at the subway stop.
(Why do I sweat more when I STOP moving?)
I attempt to combat the perspiration with frequent dabs from festive handkerchiefs, but it’s about as effective as using a ShamWow to soak up five gallons of gasoline. Yesterday, I was mopping my brow
(OK, my entire face),
enduring the daily narcissistic angst I feel re: people staring at me and being like, “Why is that dude so sweaty?” even though I know that probably nobody has even noticed me at all. You boarded at the Hewes Street stop, I think, because when the train started moving toward the Marcy stop, I looked up and saw that you were a) beautiful and b) just as sweaty as me. It was amazing. I envisioned us meeting and hanging out and just getting super sweaty together while giving zero fucks about anybody else. We’d curl up in my bed together, basking in the air conditioning unit set at 64 degrees Fahrenheit, and you’d never ever ask me to turn it off. If you would like to hang out at a local pool, or in a walk-in freezer, while you listen to the story about the time the Chinese owners of the bodega I frequent made fun of me for being “Ohhhh – so wet!” all the time,” message me and tell me the name of the football team logo emblazoned on my handkerchief.
Her Two Cents
I found this funny (because it’s soooo true) story over the summer (when, of course, lots of people are sweating) and thought to save it for a day (like today) when fall weather is nipping at our chilly feet and we’re starting to miss those carefree days of bare arms and legs. Perhaps our Lovelorn Poet writer is a bit drier these days and thoroughly enjoying the 64 degrees (and plummeting) seasonal temperature.
