Eyelashes.

Her eyelashes were so long they brushed up against the lens of her silver wire glasses that looked too big for her face. These eyelashes weren’t caked with mascara, and quite frankly, had no need for the black “lash-lengthening” elixir. Even from the seat across hers on the train, I could pick out every defined feature. Perfectly sloped, the tip of her nose was hidden from behind the pages of the binding of a red book. Her freckle-splattered face was like my favorite Jackson Pollock painting. Shifting my eyes back at the book that was delicately wrapped by her slender fingers made me crack a smile. This intriguing girl with lengthy, chestnut hair tied back in a sleek pony with a shoelace, was indulging in my favorite book: The Breakfast of Champions, by the brilliant Kurt Vonnegut.

She was equal parts sophisticated, as was she geek. Her eyes cast on the book remained unwavering as she took a sip from her coffee thermos that still looked piping hot as steam coiled out of the opening. I wanted so desperately for her to look up so that I could see the color of her eyes. If she looked up, maybe, just maybe, I thought, she’d gaze up and our eyes would meet. Just the thought of that fairy-tale moment made fireworks explode in my chest, and my skin erupted with goose bumps.
The train slowed to a stop, and people were bustling to step off. An acne-stricken thirteen-year-old with a skateboard had also, evidently, been examining the girl. Attempting conversation with his awkward, changing, (and rather smelly) body, he asked her, “Hey Hot-Stuff, you wanna get a coffee with me?” Her mouth twitched and without moving her eyes, her reply was a simple shake of her thermos inches from the boy’s nose. I smirked, trying to conceal my immense satisfaction as he stumbled off the train, beet-red.
I suddenly wondered if I looked just as uncoordinated and infantile as that boy. I smoothed my Bee Gee’s 1979 concert t-shirt, straightened my posture, and tightened the shoelaces of my navy blue Chuck Taylor’s Converse. Doubtlessly louder than necessary, I cleared my throat, trying to attract the attention of the charming girl who seemed impossible to charm. If I could hear her voice, or see her eyes, or shake her hand, my life would be complete. Tomorrow I would eat the breakfast of champions because I would have talked to the most compelling girl of all time.
Yet again, I found my eyes lingering on the face of what I was convinced to be the girl of my dreams. Her knees were touching, her feet turned in, and her ankles were concealed by vibrant watermelon socks and… could it be? Navy blue Chuck Taylor’s Converse? My heart had found its match, thumping madly in my chest it felt as though it were trying to do a waltz with hers. Only she did not look up. I was left hovering in adrenaline on the edge of my seat. This is it, I encouraged myself, talk to her now, or never. The train came to a screeching halt and the ancient inhabitants of the retirement home up the street came hobbling in; it was time for bingo. I stood up, offering my seat to a frail woman. I helped her sit down as she mumbled something to me that deemed unintelligible to my swimming mind. Once she was seated comfortably, I looked up to once again admire the perfect girl. My breathing became shallow; oxygen had forgotten the passage to seep into my lungs. Her seat was empty. The gaping hole in the chair was a vacuum in space. Incredulously, I looked down at the woman in my seat. She tapped me with her cane, “It’s rude to stare, dear.”
Frantic, I surged with the sensation to run. Hardly making it out the sliding door of the train, I bounded up the street; seeking the girl with the red book, the shoelace in her hair, and the outrageously long eyelashes. This was a masterpiece I could not bare to lose. If I found her, if I talked to her, discovered the color of her eyes and the ring of her voice, tomorrow I certainly would be a champion.