When I got on the train today, I rushed to take the free seat closest to the door. As I took off my jacket and rifled through my bag to find my book, my earphones and my ticket, I noticed that I had selected a seat next to a rather beautiful young woman. She was quite striking, really. I was therefore consumed, for the remainder of the trip (about an hour commute), with a horrible guilt; had I chosen the seat because of her? Did everyone else suspect that I had? Did she suspect that I had? Wasn’t simply my sitting down a sexual overture, a desperate plea for the favor of her favors? Naturally, I needed to dispel any suspicion; I determined not to make eye-contact, not to speak, not to notice that OMG the book she’s reading is called Good In Bed (kill me now), not so much as to glance at her with anything but a lazy indifference. And practiced as I am, I carried out my plan with the precision and temerity—I mean tenacity—of a weathered veteran. Yes, she tempted my attention by sitting sideways in her seat, facing me the entire ride, but I held strong, resolved to ignore her presence. After all, any attempt at small-talk, the mere vibration of my vocal cords in her direction, would be construed as a come-on, a brutish, transparent attempt to charm her off her feet and into bed.

It’s obvious that striking up a conversation with a beautiful stranger would simply be a confession of my attraction and desire. The converse is not the case. She could talk to me with impunity, without indicting her character or motives as base or criminal. She could see rather easily that I was reading Bierce’s Devil’s Dictionary, a conversation all its own, she witnessed the play—the circus—of the loud family of tourists across the aisle, she saw me laugh in good spirits at the children’s antics. Why couldn’t she have made a joke, asked about the book, said “hi,” said something, anything to me? Am I really just invisible?