An Open Letter to the Couple Making Out on the F Train

I’m happy for you two.

I am.

That’s what you wanted, isn’t it? My approval? My A-OK?

Just tell me, what is it about the underbelly of Manhattan that turns you on? Honestly, I’d love to know! It would improve my morning commute elevenfold.

Let me guess — it’s the chirring effect of metal on metal, a sound comparable only to one trillion squealing girls at a One Direction concert. (Or even more accurate: if you replaced those trillion girls with a trillion feral cats.)

Is it the smell of my 2% skim cottage cheese cup or my seat mate’s Egg McMuffin? No, no – it’s definitely the wheatgrass and cod liver oil smoothie that got on at Smith/9th Street. I hear that shit could turn a good man Trump.

At this point, you have the full car’s attention. You’re lizarding up against the same pole that moonlit as a municipal urinal six hours prior and, well, we’re all really enjoying watching you guys.

Your hand. Her thigh. Your lips. Her tongue. I enforce a strict “No mouth-breathing before 10 a.m. especially on Sundays” policy in my own bedroom and well, I may just have to reconsider!

Do I sound bitter? Usually, when I interrupt a kiss, it’s because I’ve suddenly recalled the name of that wise cat on Sabrina, the Teenage Witch and I need to snap my best friend A-S-A-P before–

SALEM SABERHAGEN!

…Escapes me.

But you guys? Kisses are only interrupted by even more kisses! And those kisses? They’re stopped for none other than a good, hard look into each other’s lovesick eyes, which – if they could speak – would say:

“How’d we get so damn lucky?”

And then:

“I want to eat Chipotle in bed with you while marathon-watching Narcos all afternoon and how many times do I have to tell you babe, I don’t care that the gauc is extra. Because you’re worth it.”

It’s such a tender moment. I almost feel voyeuristic in my witnessing of it, like watching Ronald McDonald get prepped in hair and makeup: the ensuing show has a little less magic.

I do have to say one thing – and I hate to be MOM – but next time, would you kindly not lean against the sliding doors? It’s silly and it’s dangerous and despite your best efforts, underground is still very much a perilous place to play.

Your act II almost turned into a threesome when I thought I’d have to save you both from falling out.

14th Street waits for nobody and there you were, pushing and pressing up against the door. McMuffin and I stole furtive glances but evidently you were too caught up in each other’s faces to notice. So then I got caught up in you two being caught up and guess what, friends! I missed my 14th street stop.

Won’t you consider an intermission for next time? The 12-piece Mariachi band was visibly distressed over the distracted audience.

Photograph via AllPosters.com and from The New York Times via LiveJournal.

The post An Open Letter to the Couple Making Out on the F Train appeared first on Man Repeller.