In front of me is sitting a boy of about eight. He has soft, straight blond hair. He has his arms clasped together, his eyes intense and deep, seriously contemplating something. Sometimes our eyes meet. He keeps a stern look. I do too, though internally I am smiling at him. I wonder if he thinks I’m pretty. He has a navy North Face jacket on and a pair of sneakers. The two little boys next to him are loud, playing some video game. He looks at them sternly, annoyed. He fidgets and the two little boys jump up and down in their seats, laughing. The boy watches over their shoulder, curious to see what they’re playing, but he maintains his distance and serious posture. He is a good boy.
I stand to get off at 28th street. I look at him one last time. He is looking at someone else.