We've all got one.When I worked for the Library of Congress, she was on the same train I was on. My headphones were playing Bilal, and she walked to the beat of Soul Sista. She had great bone structure and a beautiful face with a tiny bit of makeup on. Her eyes were green with gold flecks and her hair was blown out like Pam Grier's in Cofee. Her dress was a wine burgundy with sandals that matched the hem. Her legs were solid masses of muscle, calves oiled up hours before since by that point they had become a little less shiny from all the running and exhaust. Oh, and she was black. Not black like me, or even Black Like Me, but black like Ukrainian soil. Her oiled black hair made her skin shimmer in the Metro lights. What's funny about her is that some people noticed her and some really didn't. The guy next to me had been talking about politics with me for a few minutes, but he began to stammer when she walked on. When she sat down, he laughed and said, "I'm glad we can't smell her from here... I'd probably have to get off at Dupont with you."
Personally, she reminded me of pictures I saw of Zaire. Not the women, but the mountains or the small creeks... the heat that's actually visible... the nightime sky.
But I never saw her again after that. Most of the time now, when I get on the Metro, I feel like I'm fighting the urge to stare at the entrance to the train, mostly out of fear that the one time I do I'll indirectly stare someone down. Silly, I know, but it's still out there for me. And since the Library of Congress job was the best internship I ever had, it probably just solidifies how great I imagine she was. Just goes to show you how quickly life can take you past what you're looking for into what you THINK you want.
This post is for those girls in our life, or rather, passing through our life. Its for the women that capture your attention for a brief moment, moving unscripted. For the ladies that you see and imagine fighting with over the last bit of peanut butter in your flat in Greece. That you imagine probably clip their toenails over a trashcan in the bathroom while talking to you on the phone, make pasta that you must eat when anticipating the arrival of their parents but won't even eat what you cook when your parents show up, and can't stand your Slum Village remixes. They're perfect, but only for you. Other guys might not be into them. Other guys might not even notice them as they walk past you, but all that really matters that you do.
This post is also for the guys who know these women. For the underdogs with the Caddies that smoke that Mustang every single time, even though they really should have lost. For the hopeless romantics, without (or with) the romance. For the guys who read shaky poetry at the cafe about them, only to find out that most people think its about a fish or some strange obsession with Zaire. And, although this probably includes just about everybody, this is for those guys who know there's nothing quite like seeing someone who makes your mind travel through time to your best days on your worst days.
To those who found them, kudos. To those who lost them, condolences. To those who are steadily waiting for them to board the train, there's always tomorrow.
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