Green Line -- BU to Park Street

He sits, hand shielding his eyes against the snow-amplified sunlight. Then the trolley squeals into the tunnel. His commuter face set blankly against eye-contact, he lowers his hands to the back of the empty seat in front to brace against the sharp turns. The screech of brakes predicts a station. The dim light slides past the window, the glass so fogged and filthy that only vague shapes can be seen outside. Doors hiss open; bodies flow in. Deep in insularity he ignores the new passengers. Then he jerks in shock. His hands still clutch the top of the forward seat. Now a mass of brown curls, smelling sweetly of shampoo, cascades from under a raspberry colored knit cap and over his hands tickling sweetly. He starts to pull back from the intrusive sensation, but hesitates, and settles back in the seat looking at the hair. He blinks. A single tear reflects the fluorescents from the corner of his eye. He sits savoring the inadvertant contact. He glimpses her face in the window's reflection. It’s pleasant, blank, a commuter face. The stations ooze by outside, like a slow slide show. At one station he tenses and starts to stand, then settles back never taking his eyes off the curls. After two more stops, the woman turns her head and stands. Caught by surprise, he makes a small sound. She turns, looks down at him and at his hands. She smiles. The smile transforms her face. Momentarily she is startlingly beautiful. “Sorry,” she says. His mouth quirks at a corner. "It was nothing," he says.