Fictional Characters of New York #48

The man sitting next to me on the F train was fidgeting with his iPhone, nervous sweat on his face.

“Are you OK?” I asked.

I don’t usually talk to strangers in the subway, but this man caught my attention. Well-dressed with shiny shoes, he had a charisma that built trust, like a Great Gatsby of the 21st Century.

“Read this,” he said, and pushed his iPhone into my hand.

It was a personal email to a woman friend of his, a girlfriend.

“My dearest Emily,” it started.

“I’m not sure I should be reading this,” I said.

“Please,” he replied, touching my shoulder. “Read this. For me.”

I understood his need for sharing, even with a complete stranger. Matters of the heart can consume the strongest warrior, bringing him to his knees, begging for mercy. This moment of intimacy closed the deal. I started reading the email again, drawn into the world of this mysterious stranger.

“My dearest Emily, our night together last week transported me to places I never knew. As we made love, your breasts against my chest, our mouths devouring the other, my manhood thrusting into your heavenly tunnel, a mixture of pleasure and pain that only the Gods of Olympus had ever attained, I knew you were the answers to all my prayers. Ever since the death of my wife three years ago, I saw a future of loneliness and despair, but now I know True Love.  God has blessed us with tears of happiness. Before we met each other, we lived on dry land, uninhabitable. Now we have received the rain to grow our bounty, to make our petals open to the sun and our flowers bloom. I cannot go another day without your body next to mine, your whispers in my ear. Let’s get married! Meet me at the Fulton Street Station tonight at 8:00PM and we will toast our future together. I pray to God that your answer is YES.” Your one and only, Michael.”

I lowered the iPhone, not sure what to think. Sure, it was melodramatic and as clichéd as a pulp novel, but who can think clearly when love has engorged the heart and groin? During passion, a man’s blood cells rush from his brain as fast as commuters leaving midtown at rush hour. Back when I was an English major in college, I distrusted the famous poets who wrote well-constructed love poems. No one experiencing passion can convey it with cohesive sentences and grammar. Here on the F train, I found a man who was truly stung by Cupid’s burning arrow.

“What did you think?” he asked, seeing that I had finished reading the email.

“I thought it was powerful,” I said. “You make your point very forcefully.”

My new friend was sobbing. Now I touched his shoulder as a sign of camaraderie.

“Don’t cry,” I told him,  consoling him like a brother. “I think a woman will eat this up. I guarantee that Emily will say yes. I’m sure she’s there waiting for you at the subway station right now.”

“Yes, but what about Melissa and Anna?”

“Who are Melissa and Anna?”

“They are the other two women I had sex with last week, and accidentally cc:-ed the same message.”