Blue Line

Middle of the afternoon, a typical summer day in Chicago. Eighty-three degrees, bright sunshine, a very light Gulf breeze in the air.

And there I stood, in the sultry air on the Rosemont platform near O'Hare Airport, waiting for a Blue Line train to take me to the Loop. I was here to cover a media conference as a photographer at McCormick Place. Chicago's CTA system is very efficient, allowing you to get around without a car, able to whisk you downtown from the big airport in under an hour.

There hadn't been much going in my life of late. I was visiting from downstate Illinois, home to many colleges and universities, that were now deserted with the end of classes, including the abbreviated summer sessions. I worked for one of the local papers there also, but not on one of the campuses - at one of the city dailies instead.

Central Illinois is a good place, but with a population of under 200,000, it's not terribly diverse. A joke is that if you see a handsome guy down there, he's a tourist. So, coming to Chicago was a pleasant change, with many more hotties around.

But not today, at least not yet. It was mid-afternoon, and the platform was just me and another soul at the other end, watching cars whiz by on the Kennedy, waiting for the next train.

After about 15 minutes, a 4-car southbound train rolled up and pulled to a stop. I dragged my two-day suitcase and camera bag into the car and took a seat, facing the door.

"Doors closing," the pre-recorded voice announced. The doors slid shut and the train rolled forward.

While the train made its way southbound, and as I watched cars keeping pace with it in the traffic lanes, I thought about my life. I'd experienced a number of disappointments in recent years. Many of the people I thought were friends peeled off for some reason or other. Some just flaked out; others seemed too into themselves and didn't reciprocate when I tried to meet up with them.

And my love life? What love life? It seemed like many folks I'd see on the street had someone, and someone nice-looking, too. I'm a sucker for long-haired guys - those of the mop top, who look like rocker dudes. Being a college-educated guy myself, I recognize the absurdity of my longings. Categorically speaking, such hotties were out of my league. But we like what we like, right?

"Jefferson Park," came the announcement. This was a major station. But, like at the Rosemont station, it was sparsely populated on this day.

Except for one guy who strolled on. He was probably in his late 20's, maybe even early 30's. Dark brown hair, almost shoulder length but not quite - a good length. Kind of "squinty" eyes like I like, and a friendly enough face - hazel eyes, straight nose, no blemishes or facial hair.

He was sporting a red crop-top shirt, the kind of garment originally made popular by well-toned athletes or defiant bad-boy types. It was cut about midway down his torso, revealing about a four-inch strip of his flat, hairless midriff. Completing the outfit was a clearly worn pair of faded jeans.

By this point, I was captivated. Guys wearing crop-tops are bold to me. I wouldn't wear one, myself - I don't have the body or the confidence. This guy clearly had both.

Adorning the middle of his stomach was his bellybutton, a slit-like innie that perfectly bisected his abdomen. I realized I was starting to stare at this point, so I diverted my gaze and shot my eyes down to the floor of the cab.

The train rolled along, making its usual stops - Montrose, Irving Park, Addison - a rare passenger boarding here, another disembarking there.

I found myself stealing a look upward again, or trying to. That's when I noticed he was watching me back. And he had a slight smile on his face.

Busted.

"It's okay," he said to me. "I get looks all the time."

"I bet you do," I half-stammered with a smile.

"No, I really do," the crop-top clad guy responded. "I'm an aspiring model."

"Isn't that something?" I said back with delight. "I'm a photographer."

His eyes lit up playfully. "Well," he said, "I'd say fate brought us together."

"Or, at least, the CTA," I joked back. He laughed.

We fell silent for only a moment, hearing the wheels of the train clacking underneath us.

"Can I sit by you?" he asked softly.

"Oh, of course!" I said, trying not to sound overly enthusiastic.

The hottie sat to my right and extended a hand.

"Evan."

I reached back and shook his very nice, very warm, very soft hand. I told him my name.

"Very nice to meet you," I responded.

Evan blinked his eyes playfully. I stole a look at his bared midriff again.

"You probably hear this all time," I ventured, "but you have a gorgeous midsection."

"Actually, I don't," he replied. "I usually get compliments on my arms, legs or hair."

"Well, all those features of yours are... picture perfect."

Evan giggled gently. "Thanks. I see the camera brand on your bag. What do you photograph?"

"Well, I'm here from downstate to cover a media conference. My paper sent me. I thought it'd be fun, so here I am."

"Wow, that's cool."

More comfortable silence, more sounds of the train. Belmont, Logan Square, California stops. We were the only two in our car now.

"Do you think I should pierce my bellybutton?" Evan asked.

Oh, wow. That's kind of a personal decision, I thought, and a question out of left field. But I do have a "thing" for guys' bellybuttons. Yes, they're cute, but they're also sexy, too, subtly - at least to me.

"I think yours is rather pretty as it is," I said back, trying to keep my gaze at his eyes and not his exposed navel.

"I do, too!" he said, jumping a little with excitement at our agreement on fashion taste.

"Division," came the train announcement. We were now in the underground section of the system. It was getting close to my stop.

"Is there any chance we can... continue this conversation?" I ventured, again, pressing my luck. "My stop's coming up."

"Which one?"

"Monroe."

"Oh, nice! I'm getting off there, too!" Evan said with glee.

As the train approached the Monroe platform, we both stood to alight. The doors slid open, and we stepped off, again, to a surprisingly quiet platform for a summer afternoon in Chicago.

For a moment we just stood there, facing each other. I think he liked me. I certainly liked him.

If there was any doubt, he made it clear. He slowly and carefully stepped up to me and wrapped his arms around me in a full, warm, loving embrace. I responded by leaning into it, placing my forearms around his bared waist. I pulled him close. He pulled me close, back.

"Taurus," I said.

"Yes," Evan laughed. "How'd you know?"

"Your boldness. And touch is the love language of you guys."

And for maybe three or four minutes, we just stood there, in the middle of this L station underground, locked in the sweetest hug I'd experienced, ever.

We broke from the hug. He reached into his pocket and quickly produced a business card. How quaint, I thought. An old soul not needing to give me a social media handle. He took a pen out of another pocket and began writing on the back of it.

"This is my personal cell phone number. When you're through with your event, give me a call, a text, whichever. I don't want this to end."

I smiled at Evan warmly. "I don't, either. Wanna walk me up to the street? I could use a bit of protection," I joked.

And dragging my two-day rolling suitcase with one hand, and my photo rig over the same shoulder, Evan wrapped my right arm in his, as if he was escorting me. I kept stealing looks at his midriff, thrilled at my exceedingly good fortune.

We didn't say anything else on the escalator.

But then we really didn't need to.