Tuesday, Oct. 28, 2003 - 10:35 p.m.
A Subway Car Named Succor

On the crowded, standing-room-only subway car tonight after work—heading farther into the boonies for my counseling session, rather than downtown towards home—I squeezed in just inside the door and prepared myself for a bumpy, uncomfortable ride.

And then I saw them. Two boys—19 or 20ish—cuddling in one of the seats. The dark-haired lad in the bright blue button shirt was curled up in the fetal position, convulsing, head buried in his fair-haired boyfriend's lap. I couldn't see the curled-up boy's face, but his companion's eyes were puffy, red and moist—he was crying as he peered into his beloved's face. He leaned in and kissed the curled-up boy's lips, murmuring soft, baby-talk words I could not hear.

I was shocked, fascinated. I could not believe the boys would entwine and emote like this, in such a crowded vehicle, speeding farther and farther into the suburbs.

Nervous about their safety, I surveyed the other passengers. A middle-aged Asian women stood near me, clutching a pole as she gawked at the cuddling boys, her lips a shocked malignant crease.

No one else seemed to be paying them the slightest attention. I could hear the sad tone of the boys' mutterings, but not the content. I was transfixed.

A cute young white guy got on at the next station, hooded with an oversized fleece, and immediately noticed the cuddlers. His jaw dropped; his sexy eyes narrowed, got mean. Then he turned and faced the other way.

At the next stop, a chunky, handsome middle-aged black guy got on. He too spotted the sad, embracing duo, and his face twisted up into a fist. Lest his eyes might pop out of his head, he turned them away, scanning nearby faces for companionate outrage.

I looked away.

But soon I returned my gaze to the clinging boys, sucking up their unselfconsciousness, bravery and sadness. Looking at all the unfazed people, I exhaled deeply. With hope.