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She had pretty eyes semi-obscured by the army green hats that are so popular these days. Her earrings glittered whenever she peeked out from under the brim. She sat in silence and, with forcible style, avoided the barnyard glances from callow young men. With her leg crossed over the other, she occasionally looked up from her magazine as the subway doors opened and closed with everyday New York clamour.
The doors opened at 96; along with the usual gaggle, a baby was pushed in on a stroller. He was cute: Big cheeks, tussled hair, a deep fascination with the two buttons on his tiny overalls. He couldn't have been more than a year old.
From across the aisle, the girl in the hat's magazine tilted to, what must have been for her, an unreadable angle. It was the only thing that betrayed her practised and cool indifference to the bustle around her. She focused on the wheel; the grey cushioned tire, the red plastic brake.
She looked up, passed the tiny runners -- the quick disinterest which comes from sudden familiarity -- and looked straight into the crib. The two of them eyed each other. The baby was enthralled, clumsy, happy; he punctuated the moments with sudden smiley beams, tugging awkwardly at the straps of his overalls with drool-slickened hands. And she, her magazine trembling, slowly ruined her mascara in wet globs, never once taking her eyes off of him.
At 103, the doors opened. I turned my head to look out onto the platform. A man, dejected, sitting on the floor, his back against the wall, a voice croaking with unwavering regret, wheezed out unsteadily, "I love you.. I love you.. I love you.."
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