Elizabeth Rainer, it was always her. During my five in the morning commute to the corporation. After the rainstorm, when the lowly, matutinal worms migrated from their subterranean homes, upwards to minuscule cracks in the unpaved concrete base. Proceeding any night of extraneous affairs. Her name alone filled all my earthly sensations — leaving me void of intangible fulfillment. Such a body she possessed, curved to flawless angle so that with every step her appearance altered. Those pupils — encased in sombre, raven irises — were tainted with reflections of her vision. Her shiny, voluptuous violet lips contrasted against her bronzed brown skin. Every ebony follicle of hers refracted the sunlight although none was present.
Returning home, I was that Saturday. From Manhattan to Menlo, the subway presented itself a superior option — weather never bothered, tremors but illusory sensations. Although three cars (a Lexus, a Prius, a Tesla) were under my possession, I often found public transportation more efficient. After all, on the third seat to the right on Subway 49, sat Elizabeth Rainer.
Often, my admiration of her was parallel to a hungry, homeless traveler gazing upon a transient glimmer in the nebulous yonder. Her hands, they swayed with every syllable spoken in causerie to on-goers. Her fragile fingers swirled around the ends of her Winehousean updo. She always styled it as a single bun. Always a leather coat. And never once did I witness a phone call, an iPod, a pager — the bottom of her glossy heels (a brief glimpse of which I caught) were etched with a “Free Trade” signature. And every day she exited the Subway to stop at Station 7; the silhouette of her backside slowly melted into my retinas. Joyous agony. Elizabeth, Elizabeth Rainer.
This had been the pattern five months: my peripherals bring me excitement, she converses with passengers, she leaves, I leave shortly afterwards, I think of her at work, I return to Subway 49, she gets on, my admiration murders me, I leave, strangled by my strange timidity. The countless moments I envisioned her slim, sensuous body equaled the countless moments I receded into my nervous demeanor. Never did I speak (and everyday I attempted, my voice further diminished). Yet, never did it matter: her movements were words and her body an accent. Regardless, temptations to attempt speaking to her I could not resist.
July the seventh, I told my self, is the day today. But! It is not an ordinary day! Today, I shall muster the courage to speak to her! I was filled with herculean determination. The morning rain, though slightly delaying my ride to the subway, did not faze me. It was 5:01 by the time I got on and Elizabeth Rainer would enter the subway in 23 minutes exactly. I examined the other passengers: they constantly changed yet all served the same purpose. I examined my emails, texts: they neither changed, always the same purpose. Perhaps I, too, remained a constant and unchanging fool, who served the numbingly same, formulaic purpose. A lonesome ride it always, at least before Elizabeth Rainer. Elizabeth Rainer never changed. I would never want such.
The millennia of waiting seemed a second the very instant Elizabeth Rainer sprinted in with her burgundy umbrella. I was sitting to the second seat on the right. Always, to the third she would sit, and that day was no different. As she sat down, I gradually perspired, biting my tongue. The more and more time that passed, the more and more I thought of her, regretting my foolish move. She began a conversation with an senile lady — a demon of jealousy bubbled within me. I cooled down the moment I realized such passive envy did not catalyze my connection with Rainer.
After ten minutes, I ceased to think in words. Elizabeth, Elizabeth, Elizabeth, Elizabeth, Elizabeth, Elizabeth, Rainer, Rainer…. The moment I snapped from my enamored stupor, I managed to say:
My voice, nervously shrill, echoed off her body, scattering somewhere into the recesses of Subway 49. 6:56, she left. She always left with the rain.