August 7, 2013, pt. 2

Getting on the train to go to see my psychiatrist. Car is packed, another lady pushes to the front of the queue to snag the last seat. I plod on, squeeze myself into the middle of the car, facing a row of thirty to fortyish white businessmen deep in convo about stats and clients and proposals and indicators and trending blah blahs. They don't look up. Whatever. I was only half expecting they would.

From behind me I feel a tap, and turn to face a petite thirty to fortyish Hispanic lady, covered in tattoos, rising out of her seat, saying, “Here, sit. Sit.” At the same time, one of the suits looks up, begins the act of pretending to offer his seat, but what he's really doing is hoping I'll take this woman's offer. And I do. But I want to kick him in the head for his phony chivalry.

I say thanks to the woman. She stands in front of me, looks down at me and shakes her head. “All these men on the train....I was waiting, I was like, 'Don't these guys see her with this big ol' belly?' I can't believe no one was giving you a seat. That shit used to drive me crazy when I was pregnant.”

Next to her, a young Puerto Rican dude chimes in, “Yeah, that happened to my girlfriend when she was pregnant too.”

The three of us laugh and bond over assholes who don't give up seats to pregnant ladies. And then a silence falls over us as we all naturally exhaust the limits of our shared experience.

I watch the woman, the kind woman, who gave me her seat. Tattoos on her neck. Tight pink t-shirt accentuating what may be the stretchy belly skin folds from having given birth. I look at her arms, green tattoos snaking up and down them, and I spot two boys' names both starting with the same letter on her left forearm. I reach my finger out and lightly touch one of them.

“This is your son?” I ask.
“Yeah,” she says, “they both are.”

I hover my finger a bit over one of the names, “This one. I think this is going to be our son's middle name. So beautiful. I love this name.”

She smiles. She agrees. The train clears, and she sits across from me. One stop later, I get off, passing her, almost laughing, we both smile. She says, “Have a great day,” and I reply, “Take care.” And, this time, I mean it.