Manhattan bound Q train, Saturday July 29 at about 6:15 pm.

I met my band mates on the lead car of the Manhattan-bound Q train at the Atlantic Avenue stop. Sandy was dressed in a hangover, while Bill was laden with guitar and accessories. I snapped up a seat next to them and we proceeded to shoot the proverbial shit.

It did not take me long to fix upon the vision sitting across from us.

Young, trim, with a supple body and a strikingly exotic yet adorable face, she enchanted me instantly. Were I able to custom-order my perfect mate, her appearance would not stray far from this girl before me.

Her face was round and inviting with soft, perfect features. Glossy chestnut irises set in the natural eye shadow and light olive skin of Indian-Caucasian heritage.

I can't recall a more beautiful face in all of my travels.

I tried to temper my longing stares with half-hearted casual conversation and jovial merriment, but I could do little to stay my eyes from her form.

She was dressed in stretchy black slacks that tastefully hinted at the curves of her legs. Her feet were stuffed into a pair of those trendy black platform sandals, both sensible and fashionable. Black bra-straps peeking out from beneath the deliciously form-fitting sky-blue tank top that accentuated all the desire of man.

Bill and Sandy are discussing plans for the band, I listen but I do not hear. I'm trying to figure out what she is reading, but I can only discern that it's a stack of annotated web-site printouts. No details, no clues, all mystery.

We lumber over the Manhattan Bridge and I want to tell this girl how perfect she is. I want to sit next to her and make out with her. I want to wake up in the middle of the night just to see her face on the pillow next to me.

I cultivate crushes almost daily. For a few short seconds or minutes, some vision of beauty walks before my eyes and my heart longs for her until she passes out of sight again, shuffled into the decay of my short-term memory.

For some reason, I suspect that this face will take longer to leave me.

Sandy tells me about his bloody vomiting last night, but I'm transfixed on the shine of her straight black hair. They're talking about BBQ sauce and the peculiar odor emanating from Sandy's bedroom.

I'm wondering what flower her hair smells like.

She pulls out a stack of Xeroxed sheet music and I am officially in love.

She smiles to herself as she reads along. Her head nods with the notes playing in her head, and I want to her the music that she sees.

I want to get her phone number and call her every day until she finally agrees to move in with me. I want to bake for her, pick out china patterns and merge CD collections. I want to play her the songs I've written and listen to her voice sing my words.

I want to impress this girl. I want to show her the kindness of my heart. I want to do all these things, but I will never have the opportunity because she walked out of my life at the 8th Street stop in Manhattan.

"That girl was way hot" says Sandy.

Without a moment of reflection, he turns the conversation back to finer points of punk rock stage antics. I return to reality, perhaps a bit disappointed with the transition.