Beautiful Man

The light rail today was especially crowded, so I had the rare experience of sitting next to a stranger on the light rail this afternoon.

After I sat down, he looked over into my lap and noticed the small gift I was holding. "Is that a corsage?" I peeled down the red tissue paper just enough for him to see the small pot that was holding my plant. "Ah. It's a potted flower. That's a beautiful flower, man."

We rode for another minute or two before he turned away from the window and asked me, "Is it for a girl?" "Yeah," I replied. But before I could explain further, he added, "I guess that's a silly question. That's obviously a gift for a lady." And we shared a laugh—not the kind of laugh between two friends, but the very different type of laugh between two strangers. The kind of laugh that fills the space with politeness rather than hilarity.

He turned toward the window again, and I thought he was done talking, but he started speaking quiet words.

"Love is a tricky thing, man. I had a girl too, once. But things are all messed up now. We got divorced just a few months ago. And now we're in a custody battle over our daughter. Love is a tricky thing." Every time he'd say the word "love," he'd gently close his eyes and shake his head like he was softly trying to rattle loose the painful word from his vocabulary.

This wasn't a mindless anecdote proffered by a lonely 70-year-old; this was a confession spoken by a heart-broken 29-year-old. I could see he wanted to keep talking, but he looked distant. So I urged him forward with his story by asking, "What's your daughter's name?"

"Isabella-Marie. You want to see a picture?" He pulled out his cell phone. It was at least two generations old. The paint was chipped. The screen was opaque from countless scratches. A cell phone used for many years. An owner unable to upgrade to the newest iPhone or Blackberry.

His daughter's face took up the entire screen. She was smiling that adorable 2-year-old smile, but she looked like all the other 2-year-old girls I see. But I glanced at the man's face, and he wore a grin that convinced me that Isabella-Marie was someone special. "That's my daughter," he softly said, almost inaudibly.

It was strange to see a person, a stranger no less, so voluntarily vulnerable. He was self-aware and eloquent, impassioned and sensitive. He was secure enough with his personality to use the word "beautiful," which is incredibly rare for a man. I almost wish he and I were friends, that I might talk to him more, learn more about him, tell him that I thought him beautiful.

"That's a beautiful flower," he said again as I stood up to exit the train. "She's a lucky lady. Good luck, man." His "good luck" wasn't just a platitude. I could see it on his face: he was actually hoping that I would have good luck—a life free from divorce and custody battles and heartache. I'm not sure why he kept complimenting my plant, but he must have seen something in its red petals. Maybe hope. Maybe nostalgia. Maybe love.

I didn't have the heart to tell him the plant was for just a friend.