Plaid Shirt

     As I approached the crosswalk, I noticed him with two reusable Trader Joe's bags, one on his shoulder and one in his hand. His pants tapered perfectly to ankle-high street shoes, his plaid shirt partially tucked in. When he turned I saw a strong nose and fine beard, endearingly messy yet obviously maintained. He was about my age, but he had it together.

     I assumed he lived in the neighborhood, because his bags were full. He also seemed groomed and blessed with a general sense of peace, a strong indication that he spent little time on public transit.

     His apartment is well-appointed. He gets regular cleanings at the dentist and schedules his next appointment right then and there. When he visits his mother in Greenwich, he carefully drives the family SUV to fetch baked goods and fruit from the small market in town for breakfast.

     Can I come?

     He waited patiently at the median with his groceries in tow, taking care to check for traffic before stepping onto the street. I watched him fade away, walking what I imaged to be the two short blocks to his apartment. And as he unpacked his groceries carefully in his cupboard, I swiped my MetroCard to get back on the train.