the writing on his arm...

I'm waiting for a train at Warren street. I see a girl, who looks like a boy. who looks like a girl I used to fancy. I turn my head and notice him. He's bobbing his head to some heavy electro beat, I can hear it through his headphones. he's carrying two massive levi's shopping bags.

When the train pulls in it's rammed. I deliberate over whether to force my way in, only to suddenly go for it. And at the very last minute, just as the doors have been forced open by someone, and are about to close again, He gets in beside me, standing right against the doors. He leans forward to look at something, or get something from, or arrange something in his levi's bag when I see it... his arm.

Adorning that dark muscled skin are words... a few words...no... a sentence?... no? a paragraph.?.. no?... a few paragraphs, in black ink, in a curly cursive as if from an quill pen. I strain to make out any of it, any of it at all. But the print is too small, and he's moving, it's impossible. I start to go a little mad with wondering. What is it? Song lyrics? Scripture? A poem? Something he's written?

I want so badly to ask him. No, I don't want to ask him. I just want to take his arm, calmly, as if its a perfectly ordinary thing to take someone's arm to read on the train, as if it was like picking up a copy of the free city paper. I want to take his arm and read it, as if I have every right to. Maybe I won't even want to discuss the meaning of it after. Maybe I'll just read it, nod in understanding, and give it back. I just want to read it. I can't think about anything else. I'm on the verge of asking him. What would I say? Definitely not...

“What's that on your arm?”

No.. I would say.

“ Can I read it? Your arm? Please?”

He's getting something from one of his bags, a puffa jacket. He's pulling a black padded sleeve over his arm, covering up all that writing, covering it from me. Now I definitely can't ask him. I'm annoyed with him. I look away.

Two stops later, I turn to the door, just as the train pulls into the station.

“You getting off here?” he says.

“Um... Yeah...” I say.

Hearing our voices out loud, hearing us acknowledging one another, disappoints me for some reason . The doors open, I get off the train. As he attempts to get on again (he had had to disembark, so I could leave). I see that arm , his jacketed arm, thrown up in the air to maintain balance. I watch him get on. I watch the train disappear through the tunnel. I turn to the platform, only to realise I have gotten off at the wrong station. I set all of my shopping bags on the floor, and impatiently wait for the next train....