I saw a beautiful man on the train this morning. His skin was about the color of mine, maybe a smidge lighter, definitely more caramel than chocolate. He had on a white polo shirt with a dark blazer, creased slacks and shiny shoes and was carrying a briefcase while reading the New York Times. His head was bald, by choice not heredity, and small wire-rimmed glasses were perched on the bridge of his nose, his left ring finger was bare. For a brief moment I wished my life was more like a seedy romance novel like The Fish and less like bad reality TV programming without the cool prizes. In that instance I wanted my life to be glossy Technicolor, like that moment in West Side Story when Maria sees Tony for the first time and everyone around them goes all fuzzy and silent and time stands still and there is no one else in the room except for the two of them. If he had only looked up and seen me sitting there, in my black camisole and black wool cardigan with my hair pulled back in a sleek office ponytail it could have been magic. But instead, the beautiful man on the train, who hopped on at West 4th hopped back off at 42nd and Bryant Park and I watched him walk up the stairs as the doors closed between us. It's a shame really, because he looked like the kind of man who listens to John Legend and I'm sure we could have been putty in eachother's hands.