There was a time, like maybe back in ’88, where I would have found this so flattering. I would have found you so interesting. While I wouldn’t have had the courage to actually return your ardent gaze and maybe strike up a conversation, I’d sit here and think what it would be like to be the girl who meets her boyfriend on a train, so by – say – North Station I would have had us on a first date to see some pretentious art film followed by assloads of coffee at Café Pamplona. By Downtown Crossing I’d have lost my virginity to you, and somewhere between Roxbury Crossing and Green Street I’d have caught you kissing some other girl and there’d be TEARS. And then maybe you’d write a song about me.
But it’s 2013, and now you’re just creepy.