The 8:27 - Chapter 1

*So I started working on this piece a few months ago. It is indeed inspired by some... slightly indulged true events, as most of my stories are. This is part/chapter/installment or whatever one. There will be more, as the muse visits me. But for now, enjoy!*

I catch the last rush hour train in to work every day.  It’s become sort of a ritual.  Not that I’m always late, or a certified procrastinator, not at all.  It’s just that in the mornings, parting from my bed has become quite frankly loathsome.  I have this queen sized slice of heaven that is my only luxury in this life so far.  Sumptuous linens, gorgeous merlot finished cherry wood and a high profile box spring.  My own brother said Saturday mornings were like trying to pry a junkie from their dealer.  Until he himself tried it, then all bets were off.  I had to threaten him with bodily harm and embarrassment before he got up.

But that’s not all there is to my morning commute.  By the time I’m showered, appropriately dressed, have come to some tenuous truce with my hair and run back into the house at least twice for some forgotten necessity, the crowded 8:27 ‘Last Hope Express’ is literally just that if I want to keep my reputation for punctuality in check.  I’m as meticulous as I can be with my appearance out of sheer habit.  Being a geeky nerdgirl most of my life I’ve developed a pattern that has over the years been adapted to maintain the same result.  No one ever tells you growing up is shit.

But there is one silver lining to my mornings in purgatory.  On a few fortuitous occasions, I have had the pleasure of being sardine-packed flush up against the loveliest piece of man-candy on the face of the earth, at least in my opinion.  We’ve never spoken, but he’s always been kind enough to look sheepish when our eyes met after the final herd of corporate drones pressed us together, his occasionally blatant morning wood crushed into my middle.  The first time it happened, he seemed slightly embarrassed, and the second time, nearly relieved it was me.  Kind of like ‘thank god you’re fat’. 

Now, about that; I’ve been described with varyingly unique terms in regards to my proportions; soft, plump, voluptuous, billowy, curvaceous, Rubenesque, fluffy, and nearly Zaftig, because there are men out there like my Uncle Charlie who prefer women with some “good grippin’ for the rippin’”.  Nice.

Actually, getting back to my story, it is kind of nice.  The opportunity for the anonymity of being pressed up against this gorgeous man first thing in the morning, like sort of a karmic gimmie for getting out of bed.  That first contact is always startling; kind of warm and surreal.  In the winter, with the blustery cold of the outdoors and the train tunnel it’s so welcome I have often had to tamp down the intent to shuck off my heavy parka and just press up against him, skin to suit.  And he wears the nicest suits.  Gorgeous colors that compliment his lightly toasted almond tan and fluctuatingly green eyes.  Which leads me to believe he has a girlfriend.  No one that naturally attractive can be that styled.  Laws of nature.  I told you, I’m a nerdgirl. 

What’s really fascinating is that in the summer, with his jacket over his arm or hanging from his briefcase, his skin is actually quite cool.  I found this out first hand one day, when he had to make a grab for me as the train reeled to a sudden stop due to signal troubles. 

The feel of that massive hand splayed over my arm was what I can only imagine cold fusion to be like.  His grip wasn’t forceful, but he held me trapped to him nonetheless.  Pressed intimately flush against him all the way down; head to shoulder, back to chest…  I could feel his body shift as he looked down at me.  I quickly caught hold of the grab pole in front of me to get my balance and keep my weight off him.  Who wants to start their day with the chubby chick pressed sweaty up against what could only be described as fabric on sin?  I felt him chuckle behind me, a weird little thing that reminded me how much I wasn’t the benchmark of idealism.  At that point, I didn’t really care.  I was late to work.  And I couldn’t call in on account of being underground.  Fuck.

The train p.a. system warbled on and transit personnel informed us that we would be back underway in literally a few moments.  I breathed a sigh of relief as I switched hands on the pole to glance at my watch. 

“Nearly ten to. You’ll make it,” I heard him say behind me. 

You’d think people would be a bit more considerate than to just melt a girl’s panties on a delayed rush hour express train.  With his hand still on my arm and the rest of him still nearly touching the rest of me, I could only nod.  I knew if I looked back at him I would definitely lose my balance, and it looked unlikely that I could rely on the train lurching back to life as a cover. 

“Thanks,” I mumbled over my shoulder. 

In the next instant, the train did lurch back to life, barreling forward with more than its usual speed.  The motion slung me forward, collapsing my arms between my body and the pole and pulling Mr. Sin-in-Silver along with me.  I wasn’t sure I wanted to acknowledge the grunt I heard from him as we made contact, but if I did, I was fairly certain it was one of discomfort.  Minimal discomfort, as I’m sure I’m much nicer to be propelled into than a spun steel rod, but discomfort nonetheless.

When the train finally slowed, he pulled away from me, leaving me with a not so unusual tingle.  I was barely aware of someone shouting something over the din of bodies trying to make an exit as I straightened away from the grab pole.  His hand, to my alarm, slid under my short blouse sleeve and over my shoulder, squeezing gently and pressing against ‘that’ spot just above my shoulder blade. 

“Fun riding. Gotta go. Nice tat. Good morning.”  His breath was still in my ear moments after he’d gone, a mixture of the cool menthol and eucalyptus I recognized as a cough drop and the warmth I knew was body heat. 

Who the hell says good morning when they’re leaving, I wondered.  Then, ever so slowly, confusion set in.  Somewhere in those eight words was a coherent message. I stood there, in the midst of the express train, trying to figure it out.  Fun riding?  That had to be a joke.  Sort of a ‘no hard feelings’ type of thing.  The whole good morning deal pressed its way to the forefront of my mind again, and I tried unsuccessfully to shake it off.  It wasn’t until my cube mate Tara caught me puzzling that I even realized what it was. 

“Jeez, Seffie!  What the hell are you doing?  We’re gonna be late!  And I hope you have a jacket to cover the back of that shirt.”

SHIT! 

“Nice tattoo!  FUCK ME!” 

I could have sworn that was all shouted riotously in my head, but the smattering of cat calls that flew our way told me otherwise.  There was even a shout of ‘It’s gon’ be a good day, Tater!’  Some were even close enough to catch a vague glimpse of said tattoo; a hand, flexed over my left shoulder, four fingers on my collar, thumb behind, pressing into ‘that’ spot on my shoulder.  The intent was to represent someone reaching out, having my back, so to speak.  But what it more than often got confused for was someone restraining me into a rather lurid position.  And the only reason my train fantasy had seen it this morning, after nearly a year of riding the same train to nearly the same destination, was because my brain chose comfort over conformity this ridiculously warm morning and went with the tastefully fashionable, yet still not work appropriate sheer back camisole shirt set, but I forgot my blazer on the arm of the sofa. 

Shitty fuck shit.  Well, at least my day started off well.  Really well, if I’m honest.  I’d have to ask Tara if she had anything to remedy sodden undergarments when we got to the office.  Stepping off the train and into the early morning swelter, my shirt began to cling to my skin as we ran up the stairs to the street level.  And I had the strangest feeling that I was being watched…