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Like the Deserts It was a game we used to play, she and I. We'd stand in the middle of cars on London's Underground staunchly refusing to hold onto anything. We'd just stand there, staring each other down, arms at sides or folded across our chests, legs tensed, feet planted aggressively shoulder-width apart, waiting to see who'd be the first to lose balance and have to remove a foot from the floor to avoid falling over. She usually won, whether honestly, because I have pathetic balancing skills due to inner ear problems, or because she'd reach over and push me. (She used to wrestle me to the ground in the snow, too. She'd be wearing shoes with decent traction, and I'd be in my slick-soled rocker-boy boots, and the instant she'd start at me, I'd begin giggling at the picture we must have been, which would drastically decrease my ability to defend myself against her inevitable tackle. I always enjoyed rolling around in the snow, anyway, and the opportunity to do so with the beautiful woman whom I loved, I'd have been a fool to refuse.) I thought of this today, as I stood in a crowded train in a different tunnel in a far distant city, out of reach of anything solid to hold, and balancing with fingertips on the ceiling. I thought of her, and I thought of our game. I lowered my hand from the ceiling, checked the position of my feet, placed my hands in my trousers pockets, and didn't so much as sway against another passenger as the train lurched to a stop in the next station. With more space in the car, I folded my arms across my chest and stared out the window at the shadowy entrails of the tunnel passing. I rode that way all the way back to 23rd Street, where I stepped off the train and ascended the stairs into the fading New York summer sunlight. r
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