On the 1: Beauty Underground

By Brooke Wacha,

We touch no matter how many times I move my hand. Up or down the clammy subway pole, I will eventually feel your fingers resting against mine. You never pull away but I slither my hand down slowly to be polite, as strangers do, not wanting to invade your space. I stand shorter than you, a few years younger, and with head down, observe the details of you: the color of your shirt, the ring you wear, the tone and pigment of your skin, the color of you.

Our fingers entwine in my mind. A subtle movement along the silver staff we share. Subconscious action, devoid of thought or feeling, meaning nothing more than being young and sharing in something we’d never understand.

I want to slide my pinky underneath yours; force you into beauty underground. Don’t speak, don’t look, be like those who surround us on this shoddy underground ride; but know if you press onto my fingers just slightly tighter, you’ll feel my heart beating against your fingertips. Holding, understanding, protecting, until one of us lets go, and walks out the sliding subway car doors.

Brooke Wacha, a radio chick who started writing somewhere along the way, recently moved into New York City after completing a summer fellowship with the International Radio and Television Society. She lives with her best friend, an Alaskan, and a kitten who tries to eat her turtle, "Baby."

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