“Excuse me, can I sit here?”
“Ah, sure,” she replied and gave the gentleman a quick glance.
He sat down without saying anything further, but then he looked at her, the book she was reading, and said, “Awe, Gideon, he’s a bad man.”
“He sure is, no one can kill you quicker than with a look like Gideon,” she said looking up into the man’s eyes for a better look at him. His eyes were, dare she think, golden—not quite Twilight’s Edward Cullen’s, but they’re still striking just the same. “So, you’ve read the entire series?” He nodded. “Any thoughts about it,” she asks as she’s moving through Eric Jerome Dickey’s second novel, in the series, Waking with Enemies; she wanted to keep talking to this stranger that sat down next to her on the Q train as she travels home to Brooklyn—his eyes gave her an instant curiosity about who he was.
“Oh, yeah, I read them all; I thought it was a great series, it’s a wild ride!” Her eyebrows raise as she thinks about the use of the word wild as she had to admit she’s finding that to be a true statement of facts. “So, you just started the series I see?”
“Yes, I didn’t mean to take so long to read them, but my life has been a bit of a whirlwind.”
“It’s alright, life does that to people. So, what do you do or have been doing that you can’t read a captivating series like this,” he asks and she slightly closes the book looking at him. He looks back at her wishing he could see her lips because her brown sugar eyes are really keeping him caught up.
“Oh, I’m a model, been in Europe for six months doing what I do.”
“A model, huh, that’s really cool. I’ve never met one before that admitted to, ah, read…”
“Well, now, you can check that off your list—we’re all not that pretentious,” she said and smiled beneath her Breonna Taylor jeweled mask. He was definitely taken with this model who reads about a lovable assassin and wears statements like a walking billboard. “So, I’m Chevon and you are?”
“Amad, Amad Bishop,” he said and she knew who he was, or his name at least, but why was he on the Q train going to Brooklyn. “Chevon, what part of Europe have you been hiding out in?”
“Milan, Paris, the usual places,” she replied and turned towards him, to get a clearer look at him. “I’m sorry, but I have to ask, why are you on the train? I mean you’re you…”
He chuckled thinking again who was this Chevon, “umm, you know me?”
“Oh, yeah, everyone knows you, your name anyway, but you didn’t answer my question,” she smartly said and giggled finding the aroma of Amad’s cologne intoxicating. She closed the book all the way now and waited for him to answer her question.
“You’re pretty slick Ms. Chevon…”
“Matthews,” she quickly quipped.
“Well, Ms. Chevon Matthews, I’m going to dinner. I hate traffic, and the train takes me exactly where I want to go. Besides when you grow up on the train, no matter who you are, it never leaves your system.”
Nodding, she had to admit the truth in his statement because no matter how much money she has in the bank, and knowing how much she hates sitting in traffic as well; riding the train allows her to be at peace, reading or going over her schedule for the week, but, ultimately, the train gives her invisibility because like most New Yorkers—she can hide in plain sight.
“So, Ms. Matthews, is there someone waiting at home for you?” He asked figuring he’d better get it out there from the start. He stared at her perfectly manicured hands; seeing no signs of a wedding ring, or any ring for that matter, but he knew that her being a model, she may not want to have any unnecessary distractions on her hands.
His inner being was praying for her to be single.
“Other than my dog, Nemo, there’s no one,” she said grateful that Amad couldn’t see her face fully as it went completely red. “And what about you, dinner alone isn’t always fun?”
“Except when you can go anywhere you want and eat whatever you like,” he answered her never really telling her if he was single as she is or maybe he just enjoyed his alone time. She thought since he’s such a big deal in the sports world anytime he can get alone, he takes advantage of it. “I’m going to Junior’s,” he said, “would you like to join me?”
Her mind raced like it was at the Indianapolis 500; she said, “sure, I need to eat.”
“You eat?” He said and laughed really loud which echoed on the nearly empty subway car. A few of the other passengers looked up and immediately look back down. A few looked at the couple and thought they were cute together, but most didn’t even bother caring like most New Yorkers, if it’s not about them—they don’t care.
“Yes, sir, I eat, why wouldn’t I eat? Model’s eat…”
“Sorry, I didn’t mean it as a negative, it’s just models have to maintain a certain weight for the tiny clothes that the designers create,” he said and stopped talking because he feared he’d just literally lost the one good thing that happened to him all day.
“You’re exactly right sir, but eating is really important whether you’re a size 2 or 22. Besides, I’m not that little and I don’t model for tiny clothes designers,” she said and put the book in her oversized Dooney and Bourke bag and waited with Amad nearing the station to exit.
Amad couldn’t wait to see this woman up close and personal because he didn’t know any models with curves other than Ashley Graham, and he had a thing for Ashley, could his day get any better?
Chevon stood as the train pulled into the DeKalb Ave station, adjusted her jacket, and turned to Amad, “so, Junior’s, did you say?”
“Juniors…” Amad answered, fixed his hat, and waited for the train doors to open.