Reflections of a Beautiful Woman

Reflections of a Beautiful Woman

She waited for a small older man to slowly exit before she stepped onto the train in the subway at Clark and Division. As she paused, I looked at her and then looked away because it is rude to stare. The image retained in my mind was wonderful. I took a risk of embarrassment and looked again, holding my eyes on her a little longer than I would normally consider polite. She was looking my way, but not at me. Her perfect emerald green eyes sparkled on a canvas of clear, soft, mildly freckled skin; full lips the red of Valentine's Day hearts but the underlying texture still shown through. The only make-up I could see was around the eyes. She looked so natural. Her wavy just-past-the-shoulder length auburn hair moved gently in the warm rush of air out the door and shined more red where it caught the light. She was taller than average but not so tall as to make you wonder if she played basketball. I'd guess she was five-foot-ten.

I had gotten on at the previous stop and taken my usual position in the doorway. As she brushed past me, my eyes moved down, I thought I smelled roses. A little ashamed, but pleased nonetheless, I noticed the fullness of her breasts and her nipples distorting the fabric on the front of her sweater. She stood just a few feet away in the doorway at the opposite side of the car. I wanted to stare at her and memorize her beauty, but that would have been inappropriate. So I kept my eyes in any direction but hers as the car swept out of the station toward our next stop. How long would she be near me? I wished that it would be forever. But she did not take a seat which meant her ride would probably be short. Her face was so close to mine; the most attractive woman I may have ever seen. I wanted to look at her, but I just couldn't. I wanted to talk to her just to find out if her voice matched the rest, but I didn't. It is just not done.

As my eyes moved toward the door, I found her reflection in the window. Outside the well-lit car was the darkness of the subway tunnel, so the window had become the perfect mirror. I could see her clearly; all of her. Her posture was excellent. She stood straight up gently holding a vertical safety bar with her left hand. We moved in unison to the rhythm of the train. She faced in my general direction, head up, eyes straight ahead, not looking down or around; solid, secure.

She wore a charcoal grey, long sleeve, tight knit, thin fabric, V-neck sweater over black Capri pants, both fit like a second skin. Her clothes provided no cover for flaws in her figure. She had none. On the full side of average, her body was obviously well maintained. No rings on either well-manicured, clear-polished hand, she wore little gold stud earrings and a simple gold chain around her neck. On her feet were white athletic shoes with those little white bootie socks with the little balls on the heels. On her right wrist she carried a flat-black, crushed-leather purse and a clear plastic shopping bag containing black high heels. Her right arm and the bags hung and swayed beside her right leg.

I just had to look, like a gaper to a crash, so I glanced directly at her again. This time she caught me, our eyes met. Surprising myself, I didn't immediately look away. She gave me a big beaming smile that made me weak. I couldn't help it. I broke into my best smile. Red-faced, I turned away and longingly stared at the reflection of her face and figure in the window for another two full minutes until the train stopped at North and Clybourn. My Good God in heaven, how could someone be so beautiful?

When the doors opened on her side of the car, I turned my eyes that way again. She stepped off the train gliding confidently, evenly, barely bobbing up and down, straight away from me. Her backside was the piece de resistance; shoulders straight, hair stopping perfectly between them; a V to the waist; the derriere a drastic contrast from the waist; slightly muscular but still smooth, perfect over long legs moving one foot in front of the other. She neared the stairs as the car doors slid closed. I moved to her side of the car; roses. Then one last glimpse of her through the window as she flipped her windswept hair off her face. Never stopping, she glanced back at the car for a split second and turned onto the stairway. She was gone.

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