Lower the top of his newspaper so you can look into his eyes and say this subway just stopped being a subway because now it’s a loveway, then lean in and kiss. He’ll lift his napkin to his lips and cough into it because a lot of his lung was removed back in 2004. He’ll say he’s seen you ride this train every morning for the past forty-five years, sometimes with your mop, sometimes in a nice dress. When you wear the nice dress he becomes suicidal because he assumes you’re on your way to visit a lover. Tell him you have grandkids, grandkids with a man who widowed you long ago, and you like to look your best when you visit them. We have to set a good example for our young, say, show them how getting old is done. He’ll say he’s angry that you didn’t kiss him sooner, that you and he don’t have much time left. Kiss him again and ask him if he’s feeling any less angry yet. He’ll lift himself on his cane, pull you by your waist against his itchy tweed overcoat and he’ll tell you it’s time for these years to finally get golden. Lay down on the bench and kiss him through smiles while the entire car applauds the discovery that love lives on when the skin gets loose and the memory gets long.
Happy Loveway Day!
