I might be the only person on earth who thinks BART is romantic. It could be because I ride it so far each day that I literally watch the landscape change. It might be because I’m a goofy idealist. I once read Anna Karenina on a morning BART ride (notice: once) and practically fainted with joy because “Oh my God I just read Tolstoy on a train.”
BART has some hotties on it, y’all. I could fill Craigslist with missed connections solely on the basis of people I have creepily ogled during my commute. I know what you’re going to say next: “Mel, that’s weird.” But listen. I know it’s creepy, OK? Level with me here. We all do this. We all see a beautiful woman, man, person or puppy get on BART and immediately feel that crush in our chest and then unstoppably fantasize about marriage and a toddler and her mother driving you nuts, but you climbed a mountain together for your honeymoon, so you can’t get out. Just don’t ask her to remove her headphones so you can “let her know she’s beautiful.”
BART has some hotties on it, y’all.
Here for my mortification and your reading pleasure are strangers I’ve fallen in love with on BART.
You Wouldn’t Look at Me
After spending a happy hour listening to my boss tell me about getting dates in San Francisco before the Tinder era, I decided to try to flirt on BART. I didn’t put my headphones on. I began looking around the train to try to make flirtatious eye contact that would maybe invite a conversation. After three dudes stared back like my face had ripped open and had birthed the Antichrist in front of them, I settled on you. You were near the doors, your face leaning into your phone, and your messenger bag slung casually across your body. I was willing to forgive this spatial transgression if you would just look up.
Four stops later, and nothing. There is no article, listicle or YouTube video that can be so engrossing that the primal sense that tells you someone is openly gawking at you doesn’t go off. And I know you felt it because I saw your eyes flick up from the screen for just a moment—not at me, but they did move. I loved you because you ignored me, and I hated myself for falling for it. You got away from me somewhere between MacArthur and Lafayette. I pray that telephone poles, toddlers and street signs stay out from under your feet as you continue through this world with a downward stare.
I pray that telephone poles, toddlers and street signs stay out from under your feet as you continue through this world with a downward stare.
The Man with Flowers in His Newspaper
You had a few stalks of irises bundled in newspaper, and you rode BART only for a few stops before slipping out into the crowd. But those few stops were enough.I’m not the type of girl who gets flowers from guys, but I immediately knew you’d change that for me.
I bet you’re the type of guy who makes his coffee through a drip cone after riding his fixie to his buddy’s house to get a sourdough starter. You really embrace the tangible things in life, no matter how “inefficient” they may be. It doesn’t matter that you probably had your sexual awakening when I was shoving alphabet blocks into my mouth. I feel like you’d wake me up in the morning with daisies from the farmers’ market and tea from your friend’s Peace Corps trip in Nepal. I would hate that you talked about Marxism all the time, and our differences over Quentin Tarantino films would be what ends our love.
The Woman Doing Her Makeup
This goes out to literally any woman doing her makeup on BART. How can you not fall in love with someone so immediately sure handed and confident? Your ability to flip through multiple palettes of eyeshadow, blush and bronzer, without ever losing a speck of glitter while the BART cars rock back and forth, is simultaneously admirable and entrancing. And when you started with the eyeliner when we hit a tunnel? BE STILL MY HEART.
I don’t know how you ladies do it, but please don’t ever stop.
It doesn’t matter that you probably had your sexual awakening when I was shoving alphabet blocks into my mouth. I feel like you’d wake me up in the morning with daisies from the farmers’ market and tea from your friend’s Peace Corps trip in Nepal.
Hot Medical Professional
I’m sorry. I’m shallow. And you’re beautiful. I used to see you regularly on my commute before my hours changed. You were always in scrubs, beard trimmed and hair meticulous, smiling down at your phone, where, I’m sure, some lucky person was wishing you a good day and a good morning. Thank you for blessing us with your biceps as you reached up to grab the hand strap, and please, God, don’t ever decide to drive to work.
You Were Writing Too
I spend a lot of my time on BART either reading or writing. I’m always a little shy about the latter because I’m concerned people are going to read over my shoulder, and I’ll be embarrassed — like when I was doing a draft of this article, for example. But you sat down across from me on a Warm Springs–bound train one early Saturday morning, adjusted your ponytail, smiled at me and pulled a fistful of single sheets of paper from your purse filled with loopy handwriting.
You started scribbling, and I began wondering what kind of story you were telling. I wondered if you’d edit my stuff before I sent it in, if you’d push me to write more balanced characters, to try to tell harder stories than the ones I’d been writing. You asked me what stop was next after half an hour, and a woman has never made my pulse jump in my throat that quickly. It’s good to be nervous, even if the infatuation is imaginary.
