Strangers on a Train I (4 page)

Taking my new dress with me, I loped toward the bedroom that was adjacent to the living room. A loud knock at my door stopped me in the hallway. Retracing my steps, I peered through the peephole. Mrs. Blumberg. She was rather entertaining but quite frankly, I had no time for her right now.

I unbolted the door.

Chewing a big wad of gum, she said in her thick “New Yawk” accent, “I was just on my way to shul when this came for you.” She handed me a shopping bag. Inside was another gift- wrapped package, this one significantly smaller, maybe a foot long by six inches. My heart fluttered. Now what?

Mrs. Blumberg’s crinkly eyes fixated on the black dress that was still folded over my arm. “You have yourself a date tonight? I hope he’s Jewish.”

God, she was nosy. And so annoying. I didn’t respond.

“So, how’s your mother doing?”

Sadness swept over me. After I left the hospital, my mother was scheduled for another treatment. They always made her feel sicker than she already was. I fought back tears.

“She’s hanging in there.”

“
Oy!”
She shook her head, a bright-orange ball of frizz. “I’ll say a prayer for her tonight.”

“Thanks.” Mrs. Blumberg meant well. It was hard not to like her even though she could be annoying.

“So, what are you waiting for? You gonna show me whatch’ya got?”

God, she was being difficult.

“Mrs. Blumberg, I’d love to spend time with you but—”

“I know. I know. It’s okay to hurt an old lady’s feelings. You gotta hot date.”

Her voice trailed off as she shuffled to the door to my apartment. Closing it behind her, she got in her last two cents. “Make sure you wear clean underwear. And don’t let him touch you there.”

Too late! “There” tingled with the thought of being touched by “him” again. Wasting no time, I reached into the shopping bag and tore the package open. Two words on the lid of the shiny white box blazed in my eyes: JIMMY CHOO. I lifted the lid to find another note, the sexy, bold handwriting identical to that of the note that accompanied the black dress.

Wear these tonight. Remember, no pantyhose.~A

Holy cow! He bought me shoes? The kind you see in
Vogue
and the copy says: “Price on Request.” A creamy white duster bag encased the shoes. My heart thudding, I removed the shoes. I gasped. A pair of six-inch high black satin peep-toe pumps. Size 9.5AA. How the hell did he know my crazy shoe size? Did he remove my two-sizes-too-wide combat boots stuffed with inner sole pads to make them fit while I was dozing on the train?

A horrifying thought crossed my mind. I was born wearing combat boots. How was I going to manage to walk in these sexy beasts? I took off my boots and placed the high heels side by side on the floor. Placing one hand flat against the wall, I stepped into them, right foot, then left. Sarah, plain and tall, was suddenly taller. Six inches taller. A 6’2” pillar.

I let go of the wall. Okay, I could balance in them. But could I walk in them? I was going to do my trial runway walk down the hallway to my bedroom. Still carrying the little black dress, I took my first step, then my next. My ankles wobbled, and the intense throbbing inside me was not doing anything to help my balance
. Focus, Sarah. Focus.
Pausing for a deep breath, I took another step and then another… I was getting it down. My bedroom was just an arm’s length away. Victoriously, I stumbled inside it. Jo-Jo, whom I’d honestly forgotten about, followed right behind me.

My shoebox-size bedroom, painted in another shade of hot pink, consisted of a queen-size bed that took up most of the space, faux-French mirrored armoire, matching nightstand and a sliver of a closet. Jo-Jo jumped up on the bed and curled up on the garish leopard-print satin sheets left behind by the transvestite. Not wanting the dress near the furry cat, I draped it over my closet door. I glanced at the alarm clock on my nightstand. 7:15 p.m. I had less than an hour to get ready for my date. Quickly, I slipped out of my peasant skirt, letting it fall to the floor. As I pulled my t-shirt over my head, a waft of his cologne drifted into my nose. God, he smelled so divine. Maybe, I should never wash this t-shirt. Hold on to it as keepsake. A souvenir of losing my virginity.

Wearing my torn pantyhose and my six-inch Jimmy’s, I stood before the armoire and gazed at my reflection in the mirror. My normally long legs seemed to go on for miles. The heels accentuated my calf muscles and toned thighs, both gifts of having been a tomboy my whole life. I ran my palms over my pert champagne-cup breasts, surprised by the soreness of my small nipples. The memory of Trainman nipping and tugging them filled my head. An electric current surged through my body.

Holding onto the armoire, I removed my new shoes and slid down my pantyhose. I had the urge to hold them to my nose, but I let them scrunch on the floor. Maybe, I should put them in a zip lock baggie and hide them in the armoire. The scene from an episode of
Law and Order
popped into my head, as if losing your virginity to a stranger on a train was a crime. Jack McCoy: “Your honor, I present to the court Exhibit A: Defendant’s Cum-Soaked Pantyhose.”

Inwardly chuckling, I headed, naked, to the hole-in-the-wall bathroom located off the small hallway that connected the living room and bedroom. I turned on the water and hopped into the narrow, tiled stall shower and, with misgivings, let the warm water wash away the residue of my Trainman encounter. I lathered my hair with shampoo and rubbed my soapy hand between my legs, shocked that the bud hidden in the folds was so sensitive and engorged.

After conditioning my mid-back length hair, I stepped out of the shower and wrapped a towel around me—a leopard print one that matched the satin sheets on the bed. I glanced at my reflection in the medicine cabinet mirror. My too-big-for-my-face chocolate eyes were a little bloodshot from my lack of sleep, but my skin was glowing, and I thanked my lucky stars for the zillionth time that I had been blessed with good skin. The genes of my mother. My heart grew heavy again—the image of her once radiant face, now sunken and sallow, filled my mind. I wondered how her treatment went. I so badly wanted to call her, but usually after one of them, she was weak and nauseated and preferred to talk to no one. Not even me, her only daughter. Her best friend and confidant. How I missed my mother!

With a weighty sigh, I threw my soaked chestnut hair into a ponytail and dabbed on some berry-flavored lip-gloss, something I rarely did. The thought of Trainman licking it off my lips made me tingle. I hadn’t been kissed by him. Fucked. But not kissed. What would that be like? At last minute, I spritzed myself with perfume. Sarah Jessica Parker’s Lovely, a birthday present from Lauren.

I headed back to my bedroom and beheld the little black dress, waiting for my body to claim it. Careful not to get my lip-gloss on it, I slipped it over my head, squeezed my arms under the spaghetti straps and pulled it down. It stopped mid-thigh and fit my body like a glove, giving me little curves I never thought I had. The silky satin was cool and soothing against my skin. I pulled off the tag and tossed it into the waste can. Jo-Jo gave me the cat’s meow. Marc Jacobs and I were now one.

“Don’t wear pantyhose.”
I could hear his sexy voice saying the words. Okay, so panties it would be. I opened the door to my armoire and pulled out a pair from the narrow drawer where I kept my collection of Fruit of the Looms. Cheap, comfy white panties I bought on sale at the downtown Target. I slipped my feet into the leg openings and slid them up under my dress. I stared at myself in the mirror. Damn! I had panty lines. Ugly panty lines.

“
Remember, no pantyhose.”
Fine. I’d live with the lines, but silently I cursed my Fruit of the Looms, wishing that I had a single pair of those obnoxious butt-floss thongs. I slipped my bare feet back into my black satin Jimmy’s and gave a final look at myself in the mirror.

Sarah, plain and tall in her little black dress and grown-up high heels, no longer looked plain but instead borderline elegant. More
West Side Story
lyrics floated in my head.
“See the
pretty girl in the mirror there.”
But, damn, damn, damn, those panty lines. They were ruining everything. Impulsively, I reached my under my dress and yanked the panties down, letting them slide down to my ankles. I kicked them off, almost losing my balance.

The phone in the kitchen rang. My answering machine picked up. I could faintly hear Lauren’s voice; The Black Eyed Peas were singing “I’ve Gotta Feeling” in the background. “Sarah, what the fuck is going on? Call me immediately.” CLICK.

I glanced again at my alarm clock. 7:55 p.m. Lauren would have to wait. Pantyless, I, Sarah Greene, was ready for my next encounter with my mysterious Trainman.

8:00 p.m. I stood anxiously on the landing of my apartment. My eyes darted east and west, searching for a tall, golden-haired Adonis that stood out from the crowd. A melting pot of New Yorkers passed me by, several pausing to stare. A silver-haired businessman gave me a wink, and a rapper type gave me a thumbs-up wolf whistle. I wasn’t used to being noticed, let alone winked and whistled at. It was as empowering as it was embarrassing.

My nerves grew edgier by the minute. What if he was going to stand me up? The image of the beautiful redhead flickered once more in my head. I always said,
“The grass can’t
compete with the trees.”
I was just a blade of grass in a big city filled with beautiful women.

My heart was sinking, and my inner vibrations were ticking like a countdown clock. And then as I was about to lose all hope, my eyes caught sight of my long-legged Trainman running down the street in my direction. He loped up the landing, taking two steps at a time. A cocky grin flashed across his face.

My heart did a happy dance at the sight of him. He was dressed in jeans—the expensive, premium denim kind—and a black cotton tee—the expensive, yummy kind. I immediately felt overdressed in his LBD and uncomfortable.

“Hi,” I said nervously. I hated myself for my banality.

In my six-inch heels, we were practically the same height. His piercing blue eyes burned into mine and then traveled down my body, lingering on places he had no right to be. “The dress suits you,” he said at last with a glimmer of approval.

He offered me his arm, and my eyes fixed on his biceps. Perfect, not too big to shout professional weight lifter but enough to let me know that he worked out. The rest of his body was equally sculpted to perfection. The outlines of his muscled thighs and calves were visible through the denim, and I could see the ripple of his abs beneath his fine cotton tee.

I hooked my arm in his, glad to have someone help me down the steps in these mile-high heels.
Please don’t let me trip. Please!
I prayed silently.

I made it to the street. A small victory. I suppose we were walking somewhere—there were lots of good restaurants in the theater district—but truthfully, I was not looking forward to walking more than a block in my Jimmy’s. My feet were already beginning to ache, and I still did not trust myself in them.

“My driver will be here any second,” said Trainman.

Driver? What was he talking about? In a heartbeat, a sleek black limo slithered up to us. Trainman motioned with his finger to it and helped me step off the curb.

A tall uniformed man with rich ebony skin and the intimidating build of Mr. Clean immediately came around the car and opened the backdoor.

“After you,” said Trainman.

I looked at him with hesitancy, and then with as much grace as I could muster in my tight black dress and six-inch high Jimmy’s, I slid into the car. Trainman climbed in after me. The passenger door closed, and I was sitting once again next to my mysterious stranger on a train.

The posh, spacious interior felt alien to me. Rich black leather seats, plush carpeting, dark-tinted windows, plus a dark glass partition separating the two of us from the driver. There was also a well-stocked bar. I’d never been in a limo before. Obviously, Trainman was rich.
Very
rich. Again the question: What was he doing with me?

He stretched his long, taut legs out in front of him, and I noticed he was wearing expensive black loafers, with no socks. I impulsively crossed mine—acutely aware that I wasn’t wearing underwear. The thought made me press by legs tighter together. I wondered—was this some kind of defense mechanism?

Trainman glanced down at my crotch—holy shit, did he know?—and then subtly down at my feet. A sly smile flickered on his tanned face. Was it the beautiful shoes or the fact that I was not wearing pantyhose that pleased him? I dared not to ask.

The scent of his expensive cologne, mixed with that of the car’s rich leather, wafted up my nose, making me feel light-headed. Butterflies fluttered in my stomach, and the throbbing in my core kicked up a notch with the movement of the car.
Please don’t let me get carsick.

“I hope you like lobster,” he said, breaking the silence.

Oooh. That was a conversation starter. Me, who lived on ramen noodles and an occasional macrobiotic dinner out, courtesy of BFF Lauren, who was forever going through a raw diet phase, didn’t know the first thing about eating lobster. All I knew was that it was a big red shellfish with big, scary claws that I could never afford.