Love Angel

Through an odd set of circumstances this morning I was reminded of an event that happened almost four years ago.  I haven't yet posted this story on this blog . . . but I figure what the heck, might as well.  Many have already heard this story, as it was a part of my one-man show, Just Another Gay Mormon, but I think ultimately the message is a good reminder.

Love Angel
a very short relationship

After having a glass of wine with a friend, I entered the strangely foggy Chelsea night to find my way to the A train.  Rain was coming down in the classic New York mist making an umbrella pointless.  At the 14th Street station I went underground and after waiting a few moments stepped onto an uptown A train.  As is my usual way, I scoped out the train for any cute boys who might be heading to my neighborhood.  Finding none, I settled myself in.  With my iPod on full blast -- some cheesy Daniel Bedingfield album -- I leaned against the doors.  At 42nd Street I noticed a striking man enter the train -- just over six feet tall, dark hair, worn black leather jacket, black pants, black boots, dark red shirt and a soul patch.  Upon closer -- but subtle -- examination, I also noticed that every other fingernail on his right hand was painted green, or rather, jade.  The essence of "free spirit."  After taking my brief inventory and determining that a) he was much too attractive to bother with me and b) he was ultimately not my type, I turned my attention back to Mr. Bedingfield. 

A few minutes later (I must have had my eyes closed -- taking in the blatant harmonies and the warm glow from the chardonnay) I sensed someone close.  Opening my eyes I saw him directly in front of me saying something inaudible through the Bedingfield wails.  A bit nervous and freaked out, I took my headphones off to hear him ask, "What's your name?" In that brief moment I realized several things:

1. He was much more attractive up close than far away.
2. We were on the longest stretch of the A, about 8 minutes without a stop.
3. The train car was quite full and we had a large audience.
4. He was obviously intoxicated – or under the influence of some substance.

Something inside of me shifted.  I told him my name.  “What’s yours?” I asked.  He responded (of course, for the life of me I can’t remember what it was – I think I lost it in the heartbeats).  He was staring intently into my eyes.  He reached out his hand to shake mine.  I took his hand.  He had a strong grasp and held onto my hand for several seconds until I finally pulled away. 
“You seem nervous,” he said. 
“I’m not usually approached by strangers,” I replied, “Do you do this often?” 
“No, only when I find a very attractive person,” he said, watching me closely. 
Grasping for anything to stay in the moment and not let him get the upper hand I asked the classic NYC question, “Where you from?”
“New Mexico.  You?
“Utah.”
“Ah, Utah.” Slight grin – staring intently at me – amused.
“What do you do?”  I asked.
“Graphic design.  You?” 
“I’m a drama therapist, I work with the homeless.”
“Wow.  That’s amazing.  You win.”
“I win?”
“Yes.  If I brought two men home to my mother and told her one was a prostitute and the other worked with the homeless – you would win.”
“Yes, I suppose I would.” 
At this point he stopped speaking and just stared at me.  The proximity was almost too much to handle and I took a quick glance around the train.

“Why won’t you look at me?” he asked, lightly touching my arm.
“I’m not used to talking to strangers.  I have a hard time with encounter.”
Again he smiled and invited me to look at him. Mustering up courage I manage to gaze into his powerful, deep brown eyes.

“You have the most incredible blue eyes.”
“I . . . um . . . I don’t know what to say.”
“You seem like a poet.”
“You are very seductive.”

We lingered a bit in the gaze.  I kept drawing myself back into the moment – attempting to hold on – fully aware of the absurdity of it all, but titillated at the same time.  After a lifetime or two he leaned in as if to give me a kiss – I turned my head slightly, not so much denying his kiss as playing hard to get.  But instead of kissing he whispered into my ear, “I’m afraid this is going to be a very short relationship for the two of us.”  Suddenly I realized we were coming close to 125th Street and he must be getting off.  I smiled at him – and strangely I noticed that my eyes were welling up with tears.  He grinned, put his hand on my shoulder and looked deep into my soul, “You will know plenty of love in your life,” he prophesied.  With that, the train pulled into the station.  He took one last look at me, patted me softly on the cheek and left the train.  I watched him as he walked along the platform and went up the stairs, never turning back.   As the car doors closed I glanced around, checking to see if anyone else witnessed my moment – and it seemed, surprisingly, that on that crowded car I was actually alone.  I put the headphones back in my ears and started the Bedingfield song over.  Holding back the tears, I smiled at the distant wall and reminisced about my very short relationship with the beautiful, intoxicated prophet with jade fingernails and deep brown eyes.