This is what I wrote. I called it "Escalator." How clever. Sheesh.
I stood on the right, staring straight ahead like everyone else. I wondered if anyone knew, just from looking at me, that although I stood still, staring straight ahead as the escalator took us to the surface, my heart was pounding, my palms were sweaty. The crowded subway, with its escalators lined up with unfamiliar British faces, terrified me.
But I couldn’t let that overtake me, so I just stared ahead at the tall man in front of me with the broad shoulders and the yellow backpack, with the great ass in bad jeans, and I started to wonder where he was going. Did he have a girlfriend? If so, would she be like me—I mean personality wise? What would she look like? And the more I wondered the harder I stared at that great butt in the bad jeans and now the crazy me wanted to reach up and squeeze it, or at the very least tap his shoulder and ask some silly question about directions, because hey, I’m American, what do I know? And then I’d get to see if his face straight on was as mesmerizing as his profile. And maybe he’d like what he saw when he turned around and it would be love at first sight!
But I thought so long that when the escalator reached the top I almost tripped, and as I looked down at my feet, I lost the yellow backpacked great ass in bad jeans mesmerizing haunt of a man who might have been my future husband.
Oh, dear. I guess I haven't changed too much since then. I'm still tripping all over myself on escalators, thinking silly thoughts about boys. Except now I have a blog.
