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The beanpole man stands up to exit and nods to me. I wiggle my fingers, bye. His death eyes crinkle up in a wise way and I almost want to chase after him, have him look down on me with that look and tell me something brilliant about myself, unveil my whole me with one shining sentence, but there’s really no point. He couldn’t do it. His eyes crinkle up because he’s been in the sun too much—he doesn’t even know my name.

I think I’m done, that I’ve checked out the whole car, when I see that behind the older woman in the dull beige suit who keeps trying to sleep, there is someone I didn’t notice before. The shy man. He is leaning against the window, wanting a cigarette and not looking at me. I go sit down right next to him.

“If you smoke out the window,” I tell him in a low voice, “no one will notice.”

“What?” He’s about ten years older than I am, and his eyes are bright, watery even.

“I won’t tell if you smoke.”

He gets it and blinks. “Thanks,” he says, but he doesn’t move.

My dress is slithering all over the orange plastic seat, sounding like a holiday.

“So, what’s your name?” I ask.

He has his head looking out the window, watching the dark cement flash by. The back of his hair is matted down, like he’s just woken up from a nap.

“Or where are you going?” I say louder.

He turns to me, eyebrows up.

I lean in a little. My hair falls forward and I can smell my shampoo which smells like almonds. “I’m just curious,” I say. “What stop?”

“Powell,” he says. “Your hair smells like almonds.”

I’m so pleased he noticed.

“Do you prefer dogs or cats?” I ask him, even though I don’t really, at this exact second, need to know.

“You ask a lot of questions,” he says.

“Yes.”

“Well.”

“What?” My dress isn’t holding to the seat, I could slide right down to the floor.

“I prefer,” he says, “whichever turns around when you call its name.”

He may be shy but he looks me in the eye the whole time.

The train strains to a stop and he stands up to slide past me. But I’m up with him. The bottom of my dress is dusty from the floor of the subway and I’m thinking it looks sort of vintage that way. He presses on the handle and he’s out the door really fast, and I just barely have a moment to look at the car I’ve been surveying and watch the people watch me exit. A man with a briefcase smiles back but the women all ignore me.

I float behind the shy man for a few blocks; he’s up the escalator and onto Market Street and doesn’t notice my burgundy shadow behind him until he ducks into a retail shoe store and then I’m hard to miss. The salesgirls are on me in one second, I have Purchase written all over me. So they think. This is a lame shoe store.

“Hey,” says the man, “you following me?”

“May-be.” I saunter over to a pair of shoes and pick them up even though they’re so ugly and poorly made.

“Those are one of our best sellers,” says salesgirl number one who has lipstick on her front tooth.

“That is not a good selling point for me,” I tell her, “and you have lipstick on your tooth.”

Her head ducks down and she rubs her forefinger on it. “Thanks,” she says in a quiet whisper, like it’s a secret, “I hate that.”

The man has left the store—one second of conversation with a stupid salesgirl on my stupid part, and he’s gone. The store owner is behind the counter watching me glance around at the racks of shoes and he tilts his head, indicating the staircase behind him.

“You his girlfriend?” he says.

“Maybe,” I say again. Really: if the shy man didn’t care at all, if he hadn’t looked at me with a certain sly hunger then I wouldn’t be here. But he was half there with me, I saw him thinking about the heavy sound the satin would make piled on his floor, I saw him wondering. He may have wondered very quietly, but that still counts.

I thank the store manager by placing one solid hand on his shoulder and squeezing it. Maybe someday I’ll come in here and buy fourteen pairs of shoes from him. Not like I’d wear them, but I could go give them to homeless people who must like a change every now and then. I’ll buy practical shoes, cushioned