8:44 am

Tuesday greets me with pale golden light, singing the song of the morning, the song of opportunity. I rise from my bed without using the snooze button even once, ready to meet the promise of the day, and I prepare my body and spirit for the world.

Before I step into the shower, I tap at the water to make sure it’s not too hot. Hot water dries the skin, and as a man I take pride in keeping mine supple; not many cis males do. I luxuriate in a peppermint lavender blanket of antibacterial suds, speaking aloud an intention for the light scent to linger on my skin and instantly comfort this morning’s first client. A matching body oil will help set the scent and soften the skin. I pay meticulous attention to the crevices other people neglect (behind the ears, between the toes, the fold of skin where leg becomes groin) and clean under my nails. I shave the stubble from my face as close as I can get it, but leave my chest hair alone—some people like chest hair—and apply leave-in conditioner to the hair on my head so it’s ready for any fingers that may want to dive into it. I learned from my colleague, Nissa, that it’s important to smell good, but not too strongly; you want to cleanse your client’s nasal palate, not create new memories, lest they get too attached.

I stand naked before the full-length mirror and gaze at myself, working my way into acceptance. I clear my throat and recite my mantra, pushing the words out from the center of my soul: “Manhood is a construct. Love is a practice. Practice love today.”

I pack my Cuddle Bag, a duffel specially designed by Marc, the founder of the company, and decorated with round, genderless faces that smile or close their eyes in happy arches, and I head for the subway. As the M train crosses over the East River, Manhattan glittering with fresh daylight, I resist the urge to check the news on my phone. Evenings, when I can let go and cry and fret, are for the news; for now, I need to keep myself neutral and light. Instead, I check my Cuddlebug app for client info. Mrs. Norman, 84, UWS. Husband recently deceased. The poor dear. I’ll have to give her some extra TLC today.

I can smell the mothballs and hear Mrs. Norman’s television all the way from the elevator down the hall as I approach. At her door, I pull my shoulders back, smooth my hair and conjure a relaxed smile as I knock. A tiny, frail woman, dressed in a housecoat bursting with large purple pansies, opens the door, her wrinkled hand clutching the knob.

“Good morning, Mrs. Norman,” I say, instantly inhabiting the persona of a beloved grandson or nephew. “My name’s Michael, and I’ll be your Cuddlebug today.”

10:00 am

“Please, call me Maggie,” Mrs. Norman says as she lets me in, pulling the door open into a massive living room filled with antiques and knickknacks, posters from art exhibitions dating back to the seventies crowding the walls, a grandfather clock nestled between two large windows looking out to Seventy-Fourth Street. “Can I get you some tea?” Mrs. Norman’s—Maggie’s—voice has the fragile, girlish quality of so many of the older women I’ve worked with, and I wonder how long ago her husband died, how long they’d been together.

“No, thank you,” I reply, caressing her arm to acclimate her to my touch. “But may I use your bathroom to get changed?”

She shows me to the end of the hall, the smell of old urine emanating from the cluttered bathroom. There’s a plastic donut on the toilet that makes it easier for her to go, and I make a mental note to be cognizant of bad hips. Mounds of white hair are threaded around the bristles of her brush on the counter. I change into my uniform, which can only be described as the world’s best pajamas. Also designed by Marc, it’s like an adult onesie, cut out of marvelously soft modal and specially made to be germ-repellant. It’s v-V-cut at the neck to free tufts of chest hair or a maternal swell of cleavage, depending on who’s wearing it. It’s breathable, light, yet a definite barrier against nudity and, therefore, all kinds of unwanted (and unpaid-for) hanky-panky. In the winter we wear chenille Snuggies instead.

I find Maggie in her bedroom, which is overrun by junk—piles of jewelry on the vanity, unorganized papers on the desk, and the wall covered in framed portraits from what looks like the nineteen thirties. She’s already in bed, facing toward me under a loosely crocheted blanket. I crawl in beside her, my six-foot-two body dwarfing hers, and pull her into my arms. Maggie sighs. Sunlight pours through the window. I feel the bones of her shoulders, her back, through the thin cotton of the purple pansies, and puffs of her coarse white hair brush against my chin, and I hold her close but not too tight and rub her back and push all the love I have out of my heart and into my arms. I wrap her in my love. Maggie makes a small noise, like a woodland animal, and burrows into me, and I know I’ll get a good tip today.

***

I learned more about my colleagues’ emotional health at New-Bug orientation than I had learned about my family in twenty-five years. Of course, there were a lot of folks with Mommy or Daddy issues; a handful of hippies hoping to save the world with affection, the physical manifestation of peace and harmony; there was even a former sex worker who just wanted a safer, gentler line of work. One woman, Patricia, said that living in the city had made her so aware of the loneliness of life on earth that she just couldn’t take it anymore and decided to do something about it.

As for me, I have a micropenis. It’s a certified medical condition. It’s kind of just a fleshy nub, like a mini cocktail frank, on my lower pelvis, but it still works. In high school, my first (and last) girlfriend told me, “It’s such a shame that a tall guy like you would have such a dinky thing.” Apparently tall guys tend to have big penises. That’s what I think when a girl flirts with me at a bar: she’s just gonna be disappointed.

With Dawn—that was my girlfriend—I mastered all other forms of intimacy, but it wasn’t enough. We only lasted a few months, and ever since then—through college and the first couple of years living here in the city—when I talk to a girl, I just can’t wait for it to be over. Please stop, I want to say to her, you’re wasting your time. I clam up, get all sweaty and weird, and eventually my wish comes true.

But I want to be better. I’m trying to be better. I went to a life-improvement seminar where the leader told us to say out loud, all at once, what we wanted more than anything. He counted to three and—as around me I heard cries of “happiness!” and “confidence!” and even one murmur of “a record contract”—I found myself shouting, “love!” My throat knotted up as soon as the word was out. The leader told us that the best way to get what you’re lacking, be it respect or affection or kindness, is to give that same thing to the world, and you’ll get it back one hundredfold. I’m not sure how the guy who wants a record contract will accomplish that, but mine seemed doable.

So I started doing public hugging before or after my shifts at Uniqlo. You know those people in Union Square Park who hold signs that say “Free Hugs”? That was me, and it was super empowering to be the one creating the love around me. I only got beat up once, pickpocketed twice. One day a woman came up to me and chirped, “I want a hug!” in that kind of tone that’s both a shrug and an exclamation. She wasn’t what you’d think of as heteronormatively “pretty,” but there was something undoubtedly attractive about her. I folded my whole self around the woman’s whole self, enveloping her in this truly full-bodied embrace, and something felt different. The hug took on an extra glow, a blazing energy like in a video game when you gain super power for a minute before going back to being Regular Mario. Hugging this woman, it was like two forces in the universe had finally locked together, and nothing could stop us; like the essence of existence itself was cycling between us in a figure eight of spiritual wholeness. Her body itself was the physical embodiment of a hug, both maternal and neutral, something you could lose yourself in, the human equivalent of a bouncy castle. That woman was Nissa.

I have no idea how long we were standing there like that. I have this Buddhist friend who says that a hug is not complete unless it’s at least eight seconds long, and this experience just totally cemented that claim. When we pulled away, Nissa looked up at me and said, with an air of authority, “You’re really good at that.” When I found a Cuddlebug business card tucked into my pocket later that day, embossed on smooth linen paper stock with a phone number and a Midtown address, I knew exactly where it had come from. Nissa was a hugger like no other: she was a professional.

11:08 am

After my session with Maggie, during which she napped and farted a little, I accept a couple of bananas from her and go on my way. I’ve been trying to gain a little weight for maximum cuddleability, but it’s super hard to do when you’re vegan. You wouldn’t believe how many avocado toasts I eat. But it seems to be working, as clients react to my body these days with less intimidation and more reciprocation.

Next on my list is Officer Reginald Pettigrew, 50, Woodside. I have a little time, so I go to the park and do a few sun salutations, then sit in the grass in a lotus position, meditating. A group of young French tourists take photos of me, but I don’t mind. I silently wish them a great adventure and try my hardest to clear my heart of Mrs. Norman. This work requires a lot of emotional energy, and Nissa taught me that if you don’t take a few minutes between clients to “reset,” by the end of the day you’ll be a mess. Once, during my first week, I just rushed from client to client with no break between, and that night I found myself weeping uncontrollably at an episode of “The Simpsons.” Later I cried myself to sleep, the tears on my pillow holding the poison of all the sadness I’d absorbed throughout the day. As I finally drifted into slumber, it felt as though I were being held, comforted by an invisible force. Like the universe was cuddling me.

I try to be as mindful as possible of people’s energies, both at and outside of my work. I’ve thought about becoming a physical therapist, but I’m not sure if it’s hands-on enough. I trained for awhile to become a massage therapist, but I couldn’t deal with the many different bodily fluids that accidentally came out of people all the time. It’s also really hard on the hands, which cuddling isn’t. Cuddling is less dangerous, more “daylight,” than sex work, though you do have to be very careful not to let a client become sexually aroused. This can be super difficult, because when a person who desperately craves touch is held in perfect, unconditional sweetness, there can be an overflow of emotion that is easily conflated with love, and of course love is always mixed up with sex, and occasionally things do get out of hand. There aren’t a lot of guys who do this job, because they risk unwanted erections each time. Luckily, I don’t have that problem. If I ever get accidentally turned on, it’s very rare that anyone would notice.

I breathe in warm, late-summer air, and with each exhalation I give Mrs. Norman my love. Inhale scent of roasted nuts at a nearby vendor cart, exhale a pantheistic prayer for Mrs. Norman’s peace and happiness. Inhale the smell of a dog evacuating its bowels a few feet away, and, finally, a last exhalation, releasing Mrs. Norman from my life. I am not responsible for her, I remind myself. I can only provide comfort for her journey.

12:32 pm

Officer Pettigrew’s house reminds me of the one my father lived in right after he and my mom got divorced: dark, lined in wood paneling, full of outdated furniture. I half-expect to see a poster of Kathy Ireland on the wall and a row of empty beer cans along the kitchen windowsill, but instead there’s a single potted succulent, basking in the noon sun, and white-capped bottles of heart medication.

Officer Pettigrew is quite the opposite of Mrs. Norman: stout and gruff, shaped by a round belly and decorated in flaky skin. He has the standard-issue cop mustache. I shake his hand with both of my hands, giving his shoulder a little pat, which makes him jump. He shifts from foot to foot as I look at photos of his teenage sons in maple wood frames. “You, uh, want a beer or something?” he asks, scratching his scalp, then hands on hips.

“No, thank you so much,” I reply, pushing warmth into my voice. In the bathroom I change into a second Cuddlesuit, the first in a Ziploc bag in the duffel, then place my hands over my heart and close my eyes. He needs you, I tell myself. How can you improve his life? How can you redirect his energy?
I meet Officer Pettigrew in the bedroom he shares with his wife. He’s sitting on the edge of the bed, back straight, fidgeting.

“Big or little?” I ask.
“Huh?” he grunts, eyes flashing, chin jerked toward me.
“Would you rather be the big spoon or the little spoon?”
“Oh, uh… I dunno, I guess big.” He laughs without pleasure. “Look, I’m not gay or nothing.”
I shrug. “Me neither.”
“To be honest, I’ve never done this before.”
“I understand,” I say. “The good news is, there’s no wrong way to cuddle. You just relax, and I’ll handle everything.”

I instruct him to close his eyes. I take one of his hands and massage it in fast, hard rubs that move up and down the forearm to get him comfortable with contact, then do the other hand. “The first thing I want you to know is that you’re not alone,” I tell him, rubbing my hands up and down his shoulders like a coach giving a pep talk. “We’re a very successful business for a reason. And the second thing I want you to know is that this world is better because you’re in it.” Officer Pettigrew looks up at me with eyes that glisten with something like fear. Fear that I’d seen him, who he really is, maybe.

I slide into the bed and Pettigrew climbs in behind me, stiffly placing his short arms over mine. I nuzzle up to him, fitting the pieces together, and he rests his cheek on my back. Outside, children ride their bikes and scream in delight.

“How long have you lived in this neighborhood?” I ask, trying to help him relax.
“Almost twenty years.”
“That’s nice. And you have children?”
“Yeah, two sons.” I feel his breath is shallow, his arms rigid, and I know he’s having trouble letting go. He must have seen so much in his life, and it’s all stuck inside of him. Imagine carrying that around with you all the time. He must be exhausted.
“Do you ever wonder which one of them will die first?” I ask. It seems cruel, but sometimes the release valve needs to be turned. I want him to get his money’s worth, after all.

Pettigrew is silent, then I feel his body begin to shake behind me. He clings so hard to me that I reach up and caress his hand. “Breathe, Reggie,” I whisper, and I hear his throat open, and Officer Pettigrew lets out a wet, jagged wail that sounds like it’s been trapped in him for years.

“I think about it all the time,” he sobs, hugging me tight. I hear the mucus of his sadness choking his throat, his nasal passages, until suddenly he releases me. “I changed my mind,” he announces, pulling away. “I wanna be the little spoon.” We roll over in tandem and I pull him close to me, hugging his round body, tight as a tire. The love you give is only a fraction of what you’ll receive. I nestle my nose into his neck, rubbing his arm and soothing him with shushes just like my grandma used to do.

***

I’ve been trying to get my roommate, Dahlia, to be a cuddler. She’s training to become an ayahuasquera ahuyascera but works a day job selling PowerBuch, a kombucha energy drink, with her boyfriend in Bushwick. She doesn’t have the typical cuddler body—she’s super willowy, with long, branchlike arms—but she has flowy blonde hair and ridiculously soft skin. She may be skinny, but Dahlia’s energy is so beautiful, I just know she’d be a really successful Cuddlebug.

Nissa’s the perfect Bug. She trained me. Nissa brings you into her arms and you can, like, literally feel love radiating from her body into yours, seeping into your skin like lotion. She laughs from the bottom of her stomach, the sound of it filling her whole chest and tumbling out of her, and when she laughs, even at the littlest thing, it feels like you’re the greatest person on earth. She treats you like you’re the bee’s knees, and that’s the secret to repeat business: making sure your client feels totally loved, accepted, and cared for.

It’s not a lie, either… or, at least, you try for it not to be. I’ve had some challenging situations—bodies large and small, some crippled, some severely lacking in hygiene or self-care—but you try to open your heart and see something special and lovable in each person. The thing you have to keep in mind is, every single human needs love and affection. It’s not just reserved for the kind and the beautiful. Fatsos and bums need it, angry Wall Street brokers need it, drugstore cashiers and bus drivers are desperate for it. A woman once hired me to cuddle her baby. Just to hold him. Poor thing was wracked with postpartum hormones and she was convinced that her holding of this baby wasn’t full enough of love. “He can tell,” she told me in a tight whisper, her cheeks sunken and sallow. “He knows I can’t do it.”

2:02 pm

Sierra, 25, lives in Greenpoint, in a gigantic loft with exposed brick and plants hanging from the ceiling. She answers the door in her bathrobe, young and beautiful with flushed cheeks, wavy brown hair, and catlike eyes. She has the kind of body I like for a girl, straight-backed with the thick, tight curves of someone who dances for a living. As I enter the apartment, my senses detect the whiff of fresh sex, that oddly moist, salty smell that’s like a gelatinous beach. There’s a muscular young man by the bed buttoning his shirt, and he furrows his brow when he sees me.

“Who the fuck is this?” he asks Sierra.
“He’s my Cuddlebug.”
“Cuddlebug?” The guy looks sideways at me. “Like those signs from the subway?”
“That’s right. He’s here to lay with me since you insist on leaving immediately after we fuck.” Sierra inspects her nails.
“Are you serious?” the guy asks.
“You can get changed behind that partition,” Sierra says to me, gesturing to a Japanese-style portable wall on the other side of the loft. I hear them arguing as I pull the third Cuddlesuit over my body, surrounded by flimsy bras and silk dresses. When I emerge, the guy looks at me and laughs.

“That’s fucked up,” he says to Sierra.

“You’re welcome to stay longer next time,” she calls as he heads for the door. “Save me a couple bucks.”

The door slams and she sighs, then takes my hand and walks me to the bed. She faces me and we tumble in together, and our bodies instantly fit. We lace our legs around each other’s as though we’ve done this a million times; she pushes her breasts into the flat part of my chest, scoots her pelvis into the negative space my hips create. I press my palms against her back; she releases a deep breath. “I met him on Tinder,” she explains. “It’s just impossible to get everything you want from one person anymore.”

“I know, honey. I’m sorry,” I say, rubbing her back and trying to play the part of gay BFF, though all I can think about as she complains about men and her dance company and her waitressing side gig is the feeling of her nipples through her robe. I feel them brush against mine even through the Cuddlesuit. I run my hands through Sierra’s hair, enjoying its fruity scent, and listen to her whine about a fight she had with her best friend, who didn’t heart her most recent Instagram post, and I think how lovely it would be to wake up next to someone like her. How we could shop at the farmer’s market and make love in the moonlight and hold the weight of each other’s bodies in partner yoga. I’ve planned out our whole life together based on a single nipple.

“Mmm,” Sierra purrs when she finally stops talking and tucks further into me. She kisses my neck, then my chin, and when I look down at her, she tries to kiss my lips but I put my hand over her mouth, as if to silence her. She kisses my palm instead.

“Are you sure?” she says. She takes my hand and guides it to the hot, muffled space between her legs. I close my eyes and clear my throat. I’m flooded with warmth and I feel my heart pound, the mark of the start of a dangerously selfish sensation. The feel of her is overwhelmingly pleasant, easy; I haven’t experienced it in such a long while. I try to be present, to absorb every detail to replenish my memory of this kind of intimacy for all the nights that lay ahead. But I know I can’t let her do this; I can’t let myself do this. It’s not real, I remind myself. She’s paying you. But it’s not so easy to throw away everything you want when it’s quite literally in hand.

I force myself to meditate on the tall-guy rule, breathing into it until I’m strong enough to withdraw my hand. I place it in the valley between her shoulder blades and savor the softness of her legs entwined with mine. “I’m sure,” I nod. “Just like you said…you can’t get everything from one person.”

3:30 pm

The Cuddlebug headquarters are in a nondescript office building in Midtown. Here’s where you come if you don’t want or have time for a house call. We get a lot of people on their lunch hour or instead of a coffee break, popping in for a midday shot of compassion and kindness.

The space itself is open and sunlit with individual rooms called Cuddle Pods. On my way to the employees-only area, I pass a giant cuddle puddle in the center of the main room, where Nissa anchors a dozen or so people nestled against one another, stroking each other’s arms, squeezing each other close on top of a pile of oversized pillows. Nissa’s eyes light up when she sees me and she tosses me a genuine smile of ecstasy, closing her eyes and rocking a man in her bosom, her face a living emoticon.

“Thanks for coming in on such short notice,” Marc says in the locker room, handing me a fresh Cuddlesuit. “There was a shooting at a mall this morning, and with another neo-Nazi rally last week and the attacks in Europe … Well, we’ve just been slammed.” Marc doesn’t look like your typical Bug—he wears a tailored suit every day and slicks his hair back, his face constantly pinched near a grimace. I suspect he started Cuddlebugs in order to be its first (and best) customer.

“I understand,” I say, taking the suit from him and tossing the used ones into a laundry basket.
“So, today, we’re going for comforting, protective, super-reassuring,” says Marc, gesturing with practiced hands like he’s at a sales pitch. “You’re Daddy, you’re the ultimate boyfriend, you’re Keanu Reeves in Speed.”
“Got it,” I nod. “I’m just going to shower, and then should I join Nissa in the cuddle puddle?”
“No, I need you in one-on-ones for now,” Marc frowns. “We want people to be feeling comforted by young men today, to balance the fear of them.”

I spend the rest of my afternoon in an ultra-soft bed in a soundproof room lit by lavender candles, holding one person after another: a middle-aged woman whose children in college don’t call her; an advertising executive who lost a big client this morning; a Virginia Tech alum. One young woman breathes solely in sighs as she ticks off her list of fears: nuclear bombs, dirty bombs, regular bombs… Some people are quiet and just want to be held; some talk my ear off, and just want to be heard. I hold them all and tell them I’m there for them, and I mean it. I make myself mean it.

At the end of each session we give our clients iced mint tea and sit with them until they’re ready to leave. We don’t rush anybody. If I see any of them on the street, I’ll act like we’ve never met. The people who call on us do it mostly out of shame, the embarrassment of needing love, needing to be touched. Maybe one day I’ll get tired of it, of selling my affection. But for now, I need it too. Like everybody else, I’m still learning how to be okay. Sometimes, like when I’m entangled with a beautiful girl like Sierra, or wrapped in the arms of a man older and taller than me, and I smell his Old Spice cologne and hear his heart beating, slow and steady against my cheek, I’m filled up with inner light and for once I feel glad, and good, and grateful. In those moments, I think maybe my clients should be the ones charging me.

But today doesn’t have that aura. My final client of the day used to be a soldier in Afghanistan, and he doesn’t say a word. He just lies in my arms and clutches my back and soaks my Cuddlesuit in tears. I try to give him everything that’s left in me. “Do you feel better?” I ask him, rubbing his shoulders, as he rises at the end of our session. The man shrugs, head bowed, and slips out the door without ever once having met my eyes.

6:13 pm

When I’m done for the day, I sit in my Cuddle Pod, palms pointed to the heavens, and try to release everyone from my heart. I count every single one of them like petals off a flower and imagine myself tossing the petals onto the wind, watching them float away in a silky confetti of varied colors. I spend twenty minutes doing this, but it doesn’t feel like enough. My head is throbbing and my chest feels hollow. My energy is, like, the opposite of blocked: I feel like I’ve consumed too much and given too much and my love is unharnessed and spilling out from every pore. I just want to go home and curl up in the arms of someone who wants me, someone like Sierra. I look at her picture on the app—she gave me five stars—and I wonder, just for like half a second, whether I should go back to her loft and call her bluff. But the risk—of her rejecting me, laughing at me, or worse, hiding her disgust behind a polite, pitying smile—or, heck, the risk of me inadvertently starting the next #MeToo wave with inappropriate Cuddlebug behavior—is just too great. I decide to go home, and if Dahlia is there, I’ll ask her to cuddle me instead.

I leave the CBHQ and walk toward Bryant Park, avoiding the people who amble down the middle of the sidewalk staring at their phones, everyone connected and alone, and I smoke an American Spirit cigarette I bummed from a woman in a skirt suit on the street. I know it’s super bad for me, but sometimes it’s the only thing that makes me feel better. It’s a leftover habit from my angry teenage years, and a nice little rebellion, because I could never smoke before cuddling a client. I only smoke at the end of the day, when I know no one else will be in my arms.

For a long time, I felt sorry for myself because of my body; of course, I got bullied in school and couldn’t experience relationships the way my peers could. I thought I would never experience the kind of passion I saw in the movies or on TV. Rap videos where women clung to a man two or three at a time made me burn with envy. But being a Cuddlebug has changed that. I remind myself of this fact as I exhale smoke near the entrance to the subway, taking my time to finish the cigarette. With my job, I get to meet other people who are lacking in love, and that makes me feel good; it helps me to not feel alone, seeing others being lonely. I see that not everyone gets what they need, and that it’s okay to need anyway. I see that a romantic relationship is not the only way to give or receive love. I give it, and get it, all day every day, I tell myself, and not one of those people measures my value by the size or shape of my penis. So I don’t either. It’s enough just to feel I have a purpose in life, something I’m good at.

I begin my journey back to Brooklyn. On the platform at 42nd Street I see an older man doing magic tricks for a dollar, and I feel his aching, his longing for contact. I give him a twenty, which is not as good. Little things like that, especially on a day like today, can make me gush with sadness—an old person walking slowly across the street, a person with a shaking, palsy hand. A frustrated parent, or a homeless person folded over themselves on the sidewalk will do it to me. New York should come with a trigger warning. May not be suitable for some viewers, you know? Something as simple as a woman wearing outdated makeup or an ill-fitting pair of jeans is enough to incite a cascade of empathy in my chest. It’s a real, physical feeling. It’s thick and black, inky, and sticks to my bones until I do something good for someone. Dahlia says I try too hard to heal the world; she calls me Atlas. Then she puts her hand on my chest and says I have to heal that first. This is the conversation we have every time we’re stoned.

That dark, sticky feeling wells up in me as I board the M train heading downtown. I can’t stop thinking of the soldier, the quiet choke of his sobs muffled against my chest. I can’t shake the feeling that I failed him. I did a lot of good work today, but somehow I feel so heavy, you could squeeze me out like a sponge. I should have taken more breaks this afternoon. It’s rush hour and all around me, people hold their bodies tight, arms crossed over their chests, making themselves as compact as possible or scooting away from their neighbor to avoid touching each other. In this city you can be lonely but never alone, and New Yorkers have amazing ways of creating their own intimate spaces, even in a crowd.

You can see incredible things about people when they don’t know you’re watching them, as on the train: every age they’ve been—the businessman who folds his hands in his lap and reads an ad above the seat across from him, eyes wide, looking like a child—and their worst selves, the glaring side eyes, the jabs, the tight lips. One woman shoots another one a dirty look when the second lady’s bag bumps up against her shoulder. She looks enraged, and over what? I think of a story I read last week of a disturbed man who shoved a woman in front of an oncoming train, just because she’d brushed past him in her hurry down the stairs.

A wave of sorrow washes over me, so I close my eyes and cherish the feeling of other people’s bodies against mine. I’ll take it, I tell them telepathically. I will absorb the touches you shy away from. We are all one. I make myself hyperaware of the soft, sweaty sides and sharp elbows of all the lonely people around me, grateful for every second and every inch of flesh against my flesh, hoping to spread my positive vibrations out to them like a heat lamp. I try to pick out as many scents as I can: all the different strains of B.O., sour and bitter and salty; the floral perfumes and powdery deodorant scents mingling. Your air is cuddling; why can’t you be okay with each other? I think as the lady next to me sighs and shoves me, more people cramming in at Fourteenth Street.
I open my eyes, and before me is a brawny man who keeps clenching and releasing his fist. He looks like my father. His lips are pressed together, face red, beads of sweat gathering at his hairline, and he is the most in need of a hug of anybody I’ve seen in a long, long time. He must feel so bad inside. I feel tears swelling in my eyes, my throat tight, and I reach up and rub his shoulder to assure him that everything’s going to be okay.

He jumps and swats my hand away. “What the fuck are you doing?” he shouts.

I know I’m not supposed to approach strangers in this way; usually I would just slip my card in his pocket and wait for him to come to me. They always do. But today, I can’t help it. Deep in my heart, my intuition is screaming that this man needs me, now. I have so much to give, and he is so empty, and maybe if I correct the imbalance between us, the whole world will be somehow, in some way, just a little more at peace. And we need every shred of it that we can get. “You are loved,” I tell him, tears spilling out of me, trying to pierce his soul with my kind eyes. And what about me? my heart wants to know. I reach out to him again, hoping to tenderly stroke his cheek.

“Don’t touch me, you fucking faggot,” he snarls with a hard shove, sending me in a trust fall into a handful of people, all of us losing our balance together as the train rocks. It truly feels as though the group of us has become one collective being.

“Who do you think you are, huh, you little punk?” The man spits on me. Everyone’s staring as my brethren pull themselves up and the doors open at West Fourth Street. Folks pour out and flood in as I struggle to get upright, trying to disembark and wait for the next M train, but I fall at the threshold, skinning my palms. As I crawl out, an overweight teenage girl trips on me in her rush to get in before the doors close, and I strive not to let her fall, and my Converse sneaker gets stuck in the gap between the train and the platform, and everyone is just walking right past me as I shout to the conductor.

“Wait!” I try so hard to make my voice heard, but my throat is so knotted up with sadness and panic that it comes out a squeak. The conductor’s head is turned the other way. I bang on the silver door, but the people inside the train look into the distance, music in their ears, or read their phones.

I manage to pull myself free just in time, and I hug my knees to my chest as the M departs the station. The wind of the receding train blows my tears to the back of my cheekbones. I hold myself tight. The rest of New York walks around me, hurrying to make their connections, on their way home to whoever.

This story was first featured in Tahoma Literary Review
Image: Pinterest