=AtG=

I’m on the train. The weather has finally picked up in true Albertan fashion, zipping from freezing to blistering hot over the course of a single day. I dole out compliments to anyone who looks like they’re trying to hold their self-confidence up with shaky hands. “You look great!” “I like your hair!” “Nice choice of sandals!”

Despite the weather, the punks–myself included–stick to our ripped jeans and hipster beanies. Their symbolic importance exceeds any need for comfort. We’ll accept being a little hot. It’s important to set ourselves apart, and our clothing choices are a convenient short hand for that.

The train pulls into another station, the doors opening to admit a wave of heat and passengers. A woman sits across from me, probably somewhere around my age. She’s absolutely my kind of gal. Side shave on her head, large expressive piercings, resting bitch face, and some god damn gorgeous combat boots. She places one leg on the inactive heat vent between us. I look down at her boots. Black Doc Martens. They’re well-loved, the lines of age striking out across the leather like lighting bolts in the evening sky. Covered in mud and dust. Cracks bared like battle scars. Yellow threads make up the perimeter of each shoe, a snake that bobs in and out of the leather. The train might be air conditioned, but I’m getting hotter nonetheless.

“I really like your boots,” I say. Understatement of the year. I’m not a brand snob but black Docs are notoriously responsive recipients of bootblack TLC. I know I’m blushing. I don’t care. Or maybe I do, and I’m hoping she notices.

She looks up from her phone. “Oh,” she says. “Thanks.” Her smile seems sincere, but it fades away as she returns her attention to her phone. I sink a little on the inside. I don’t want to be obnoxious and persist after being brushed off, so I quietly take a breath and settle for staring out the window, pretending I wasn’t fantasizing about an erotic bootblacking scene.

“I like yours too,” she says after a pause. “Are they new?”

I get a head rush, the kind you have to reign in around strangers whose interest in your has not been confirmed. “Thanks! Not new. I black them myself,” I say. “Have you had yours cared for lately? They look like they could use some TLC.”

I knew the answer was no, of course. I couldn’t see any signs of leather care at all on her shoe, so if she had them blacked, it was ages ago. I try to act somewhat aloof, but I think she can tell I’m really into it.

“No, it never really crossed my mind,” she says.

“You can really extend the lifespan of real leather with proper care,” I say. Yes, that’s right, make it about economics. That’s something normal people do.

“I guess that makes sense,” she says. “But how much does it cost compared to just replacing them?”

I pull out one of my business cards. It’s fairly innocuous, to the untrained eye. The job title is ‘Volunteer Coordinator.’ The business name is unassuming, on the surface, although it was filled with code words common in the BDSM scene. I offer the card and she takes it. The entire card is one long euphemism for spends lots of time at a dungeon. “I do it for fun at certain events, actually, so nothing if you went here. Although tips are always welcome.”

“I’ve heard of this place,” she says. “Isn’t that a sex club?”

“Sort of,” I say. “A lot of stuff happens there, not just sex.”

“Like what?”

I grin. I feel pushed by an almost manic confidence, even if the little voice that tells me I’m not good enough begs me to stop. “Like getting your boots blacked,” I say. “If you ask nicely.” Manic Confidence winks. Little Voice cringes and prepares for the worst.

She stares at the card, flicking away at the corners. The train’s announcer buzzes to life, declaring its next stop. She shoves the card in her pocket, sizing me up as the train lurches to a stop. “I’ll think about it,” she says.

“That’s great! Have a good day,” I say. I’ll think about it, too. Maybe I’m just hopeful, but I swear I can see the corner of her mouth lift into a grin. A new wave of heat and passengers filters through the doors. I see her pause in the middle of the platform, looking at the card, turning it over. She eventually inches away as the train starts again. Someone else takes her spot across from me. I look down at their shoes.

Flip flops.

No flirting for that one.

-Shiv