Fleekin Floygn

It is a well known fact that I love to play the Bus Hottie game. You know, where you pick cutest person on the bus and stare at them while trying not to get caught. Toronto is an embarrassment of riches for transportational aesthetes and sometimes I even have to choose between two or more. The down side is that the bus, subway or streetcar is generally packed and so I generally settle on who is the most easily visible while maintaining an air of non-stalkerdom.

Today, on the way home from synagogue, the most beautiful guy was standing on the platform waiting for my streetcar. Now, by 'most beautiful' I do not mean your Patrick Demseys or Justin Timberlakes of the world, but rather my ideal, which, while varied, was perfectly encapsulated in this individual. About my height, perhaps a bit heavier due to lack of emaciation, still slender but with some slight padding in the good places. Hair was full, dark and unruly. Pale skin but with heavy eyebrows and stubble, with no sideburns but tufts of regular jutting down. Pouty lips. Soft eyes. We didn't look entirely dissimilar. He was beautiful. So beautiful, in fact, that I couldn't even bring myself to engage him in Eye Contact Wars. He was also wearing the exact same hoodie as I was, thereby confirming my longtime suspicions that my narcissism is so great that I pretty much just want to fuck myself. This, interestingly enough, has also been suggested by others on occasion.

Then, he reached into his bag and pulled out something resembling a tensor bandage with a loop on the end, through which he placed his index finger. He then proceeded to wrap his wrist in the material, which revealed itself to be an elaborate camo-patterned wrist ornament that even gets wrapped 'round the fingers. In other words, it looks pretty badass. So I'm catching glimpses of him in all his prettiness, with his casual yet specific attire and this very intentional accessory and I'm picturing him, as one does, in different social situations with me as my "person" and suddenly thought to myself, "Uh, who do you think you're kidding?"

It became very clear to me that here was this guy without any pretense or uniform and I was dressed in a suit, dress shoes, a kippa in my pocket on the way home from a house of prayer. My boho, rave-y, empoverished-but-happy fantasies are extremely at odds with my current career path. Cause even if he had, as the fantasy went, come over and struck up a conversation, leading to mutual love fallings and all the bliss that my little emo faggy heart has ever wanted, at what point in that haze do I say, "Oh, by the way, I can only really be with a Jew so how do you feel about converting?"

I suppose the big concern that I'm trying to iterate is that what if neither of these worlds is enough? I'm never going to be happy working in a thankless job, completely stifled of creativity, but the relationship that I still desire isn't all that conducive to a leader in a religious community.

There's no epiphany in this post. This just happened half an hour ago. But...fuck.