Venus of 215th street

I finally understand why women are so enchanting.

I was on the one train this afternoon, listening to Diana Ross and The Supremes, tapping my foot and chewing my lip. I was thoroughly lost in a daydream where I was baking pecan pie in an  adorable mint green apron, dancing around the kitchen of the quaintest little house set in some southern state in 1969. At 215th street I was jolted out of my domestic vision when across from me sat the most beautiful girl I have ever seen. The kitschy cabinets faded and my fantasy pie was replaced with the kind of girl that can flirt with a smirk and kill with a kiss. She looked exactly like princess Jasmine, only she wore a gold puffy coat with fur lining rather than green satin slippers and a tiara. I  could not help but glance twice at her face. Never have I seen a visage so perfect, there was almost a holiness to her. I was taken aback by the sight of her sitting in front of the window, so warm and contrasting with such a frigid backdrop, December sky the color of wet toilet paper. Her eyes were deep hazel, darkly outlined, her dark chocolate brown hair was thick and straight, with an ethereal sheen, the kind I've always wanted. Her complexion was flawless, she had such an easy hold on that fantastically dark beauty that only blesses mediterranean or middle eastern women. Her nose and lips were of the most delicate formation, the shape of her jaw was just rounded enough to make her cute as well as gorgeous. This is the kind of girl that inspires sonnets, men have struggled to depict the likes of her features in iambic pentameter and alternating rhyme scheme. During our startling second of accidental eye contact, she smiled the most beguiling smile. This struck me as so strange, because such communication is avoided as a rule without exception in these situations, and I was left with a wistful jealousy. An unshakable curiosity. Even after she got off at 116th street, that smile remained in my mind's eye. 

I am and have always been solely attracted to boys. I'm a sucker for lean muscle and prominent noses, big hands and embraces of protection. Until today I never understood why women were so worshipped by the world for their physical features, I always agreed halfheartedly to that kind of reverent admiration. Now I understand it. I fully get it. Scarlett Johannson? Nah. Megan Fox? Nah. This insight is purely platonic, memorable nonetheless. Goddess on the one train. Why can't I forget about this girl? I think she was trying to tell me something, like a big sister giving advice, a teacher, leading by example. She was demonstrating the power of a smile, how to take the world with a simple smile, a languid, striking breathlessness. I can only dream that I could someday harness this type of power, have the men of the world on their knees, take and hold and squeeze them until they choke, while they gaze dumbly in glazed over adoration. Venus of 215th street.