Dear Diary:
I was on the train on a night in mid-July and noticed a neon blur. A woman had walked by me in one of those flowing, blood-orange dresses made out of some stretchy material.
Every new Long Island Rail Road train has these jutting armrests - the most horrible design flaw ever. Well, I was sitting in the aisle seat when the tail of her dress caught onto my armrest and it began to pull, and pull, and pull.
Everybody around me acted as if we were deep-sea fishing and a marlin had just taken the bait. Hands went for the caught hem, as it stretched an impossible five feet, but mine got there first. Right as I unhooked it, saving her from the worst commuter wardrobe malfunction ever, she turned about and looked right at me.
The bottom of her dress was caught between my fingers. I waited an impossible one, two, three seconds in silence. Waiting for a thank-you, a handshake, an acknowledgment that I had just saved the day - but her face darkened. I looked at me through her eyes and opened my fingers. The dress snapped back, acting as if nothing had happened.
The doors opened as she said, “YOU FILTHY PIG!!!†and stormed out. Silence … Doors closed … then deafening laughter filled the whole train.
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