It had been one of those infinitely long days where I did nothing but stare blank-faced at my computer screen. Time begrudgingly crawled its way to 4:30PM when I conceded it was time to duck out early to go home. The buzzing sounds of electricity and humanity started getting to me from the moment I got down into the station. After boarding my first train, I brought the book in my hand closer to my face and let my hair fall down over one eye. I never should have cut those fucking bangs last year. I’m drawn out of my haircut remorse by the crackling loudspeaker announcing our arrival at 6th Avenue. 

Stepping off with the rest of the after-work crowd, we slowly herded ourselves down two flights of stairs to the L. Everyone is visibly agitated, staring blankly while they shuffle up and down the line, looking for enough free space to stand comfortably apart from their neighbor; there isn’t enough room for any of us to stand comfortably. The ambient album of Tycho’s I had put on as I left the office blasts through the uncomfortable white earbuds that came standard with my last iPod, but I can still hear every aggravating verbal exchange around me. These headphones are so crap. I turn the volume up, again unable to lose myself in the book inches from my face. The words swim across the page; I can’t focus long enough to transition into zoning out. All the elbowing, bag-checks and trying to shuffle out of the way for people trying to make their way to the opposite end of the track has me on edge. The crowd is five people deep across the entire length of the track, Brooklyn-bound, and I’m ready to snap – on someone, on anyone.
A woman at the front of the pack leans forward, past the bumpy yellow marking the “danger zone” closest to the oncoming train and I visualize kicking her ankle, sending her to an untimely death. It’s an idle fantasy I would never indulge in, but thinking shit like this is one of the few things that gets me through all the near-panic attacks New York seems to bring out in me. Today I am too defeated by “The Man”, my nine-to-fiver, my weak income—and the vision of her head getting lopped off as a train pulls into the station too fast brings only the slightest of smiles to my face. The light from the oncoming train snaps me back to the present. Surveying the crowd in front of me, I realize I’m not going to make it on this train. I inch closer to the steel pillar nearest and half-lean against it, content to be the first in line for the next train. Once the cars are filled to capacity and the doors shut, I step forward onto the yellow tiles; missing one train is fine, but two simply will not do.

When the next train pulls in, I start looking for where I’ll be scrambling to stand before the door even opens, accidentally locking eyes with a sandy-haired man seated inside in the process. He looked away first before abandoning his seat to stand up, grasping the rail overhead while steadying the book loosely gripped in his other hand. I’m pushed inside by the rush of commuters behind me,  accidentally-on-purpose finding myself next to him, feigning rapt attention on my book while stealing glances at him from my periphery. Staring downward, his tan leather work boots catch my eye. The dust and splatters running down the legs of his pants and shirt make it clear he’s in construction. And, apparently, literate.

Baffled by this string of realizations, my attention shifted between the slow pace I was making through the printed paragraphs in front of me and the light scruff on this stranger’s face. It took all my focus to pretend I didn’t notice every time he looked up from what he was reading, the weight of his gaze sending a knowing tingle up the back of my spine. We stood next to each other through each stop in the city and well into Brooklyn, half-reading and half-studying each other as the crowd began to thin out. There was no way to exchange words now, too much ogling had occurred for speaking to be casual. An older man seated in front of me giggled as my new reading buddy got off the train at the stop before mine, saying something I couldn’t quite hear over the barely-there music still playing through the white earbuds. I peered over the edge of my book at the smiling man, raising my eyebrows as the corners of my mouth turned up in a wry smile. I knew something had happened behind my back, something amusing enough to cause a stranger to smile and laugh, but didn’t turn around, opting instead to relish in the thrill of not knowing.

Getting off the train at the next stop, the extra swing in my step accompanied a smirk I couldn’t wipe off my face. I had to do something—this sensation needed to last just a little bit longer. Only one possibility came to mind: Craigslist’s missed connections. Having used the walk home to mentally lay out the groundwork for what I would post, I went straight to my laptop once I walked through the apartment door. Fuck it, I figured, just take the plunge. Having laid the post out in my head while walking home, it effortlessly pieced itself together on screen in front of me. It was fucking perfect.

“I got on the L at 6th Ave. You were giving me the once over through the window before the doors opened so I could get on. You gave up your seat for old ladies and we stood next to each other on the way to Brooklyn. I stole sidelong glances at you, I think you stole some at me, too. You were wearing an army green t-shirt with Carhartt pants and work boots. I didn’t see what you were reading, but there was enough dirt under your nails and in hard to scrub crevices for me to suspect you work with your hands. You’re quite handsome, and probably not the type to read missed connections, but this is worth a shot.

The man seated in front of me started giggling when you got off at ______. Did you trip on your way out? Did you give me another good, long look? My back was turned, but I’d love to know what I missed.

Who was taller anyway, me or you?”

Stopping to marvel at my handiwork, I feel the small swellings of pride in my ability to turn the mood-lifting experience into something worth posting about, worth tossing outwards into the abyss of the internet. For all I knew, he actually deserved to have nice things written about him, whether he wound up seeing them or not; but this post? This was for me. With the majority of the ad finished, I struggled  with inconsequential details: should I list it as Brooklyn or Manhattan? Did it even matter? It did’t—if he was the type to cruise missed connections, he kept an eye on both. The title wrote itself: ‘To the blue-eyed man that works with his hands.’ I hit the last few buttons to confirm I really wanted to post this before sitting back, still gloating as I copied the post’s URL.

Opening a new email, I pasted the URL in the subject line and BCCed several friends before hitting send. It felt wise to prevent this message from becoming a round table discussion of my willingness to troll for construction workers on the internet. My humblebragging was quickly met with several replies, all of which praised me further while questioning my sanity. I was delighted enough by their responses to be comfortable with the fact I’d likely never receive a reply from the man on the train. The next hour was spent riding the small endorphin high that accompanied my frivolous internet posting. Until a new email popped up. 

“Taller, in plaid.”

I considered leaving Pandora’s Box unopened, deleting his reply in favor of enjoying the rush of mystery. But I made the first move and now, feeling obligated, open his reply and read the few lines he’d sent me. His email was flat; it wasn’t carefully crafted or as well-worded as my post, but his interest in meeting up was clear. The real gem of the message was at the bottom, his full name and website included in the email’s signature. It didnʼt take long for me to succumb to the lure of Google, clicking through pages of linked information so carefully cataloged by the internet over recent years. Despite a very-private FB account and blog that had clearly been deleted sometime recently, putting an overview of his life together is not difficult. He’s a recent college graduate—an artist, as it turns out. I find photos of him in classrooms and studios, some clearly taken with the need to showcase the school’s art credentials in mind. He’s not cute, but handsome, broad shouldered with several days worth of carefully procured facial scruff, hair always slicked up in that messily-clean attempt at bedhead nobody actually wakes up with. 

The more posts I see related to his higher education, the more bummed I am. I wanted him to be the epitome of manliness, the complete opposite of all the Weenie-Boys of Bushwick I kept seeing on the street. Their carefully curated facial hair and penchant for dressing like they belong in a decade past doesnʼt do it for me. Those mousey-faced girls with greasy hair can have them all – I’m looking for something like the person I thought I’d seen in him. We exchange several more emails as I troll him, finding enough to know he’s real but not enough for all my questions to feel answered.

His last email includes a phone number; clearly, he’s done with the internet dance and looking to get down to business. Still giddy and slightly flushed at how quickly he had responded, I waste no time in texting him. He’s quick to suggest we meet up in the neighborhood after work some time to catch a drink. I knew I had a friend staying on my couch for the next week, and told him his options were limited to before or after their stay.

Tomorrow then. New spot I want to check out… Meet me at _____ at 7.

A squealing, girlish glee begins to build in the bottom of my stomach, the kind I remember feeling each time I got a new boy’s number in high school, the anticipatory knowledge we were going to “hang out” back when alcohol didn’t lubricate the awkwardness of first dates. The sensation moves from stomach to tail bone before making it’s way up my spine and out my mouth, the victorious “Yesssssss!” hissed into my empty room.