I was hurtling toward Brooklyn on the Q train, wearing cherry-red pants that hugged my hips. He was tall, bald, in his early 30s, with pale skin, tired eyes and a thin nose over a goatee. His smile was bashful, but his legs, in baggy track pants, were spread confidently on the orange seat.
I stood up and studied the map as if I had no idea where I was going, putting a little tilt in my pelvis. As he kept the place in his book with one long finger, his eyes followed the curve of my back.