I was happily reading my graphic-design book on the subway when I looked up for no reason and noticed leaning against the doorway a pale, puffy-muscular redhead, of my generation, in a T-shirt and ill-chosen cargo pantalon and sneakers. He carried grocery bags and was the colour of milk in which oatmeal has sat too long. His flattop, soul patch, and inkling of a chinstrap beard were darker than his flagrantly blond and infeasibly long eyelashes. What seemed like an unsubtle dead giveaway, a wide leather wrist strap, was actually a green-backlit LCD watch, and while I was looking at that I noticed he also had a ring on his little finger.

Apart from affecting to look straight through me twice, he studiously avoided my gaze. (Sorry I’m not your fucking type, honey.) He got off at Broadview, probably destined for one of the gay apartment blocks there.

In short, I looked up from a book on British typography to behold a red-haired gay engineer with quintessential fawny eyelashes.

A bloggable moment, shurely?!

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None. I quit.

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