You have big brown eyes. Immense, expressive eyes that look about the train, desperately yet demurely avoiding my presence. I’m busy writing on a notepad before I notice you sitting across from me, and even then I still focus on what I’m doing. But as time goes on, and as I tire of my words, I begin to look your way more often. I can’t tell your age, and this fascinates me to no end. You alternate between youthful and middle-aged; it seems to depend on which way you turn your head. What remains constant are your features—your sharp nose and those beautiful, expressive eyes. You sit neatly on the train’s bench—legs crossed, one atop the other, your well-shaped body only barely hidden by your mode of dress. I do my best not to stare, as always. But I wish I could gaze. You know I’m here, you know I’m alive and present, and I see a smile crawl across your face.