Snapshots on the NYC Subway

She ducked into the train and slipped into a window seat.  Pulling out a compact, she peered over the edge of her glasses and applied the lipstick painstakingly.  First one side, then the other.  Then folding her hands over her purse, she crossed her sensible shoes and stared straight ahead.  Where was she going?  To Central Park to meet a first date?  The air of expectancy and quiet resignation about her at the same time suggested the oldest, unmarried daughter who worked for the family business.  Or the librarian who read about romance and adventure, but had yet to experience it.

He sat, feet solidly planted apart.  Tan workboots on his feet.  Camo cap on his head.  Big hands, and thick fingers that rested on his knee, occasionally tapping impatiently.  A working man.  A laborer of some kind.  Construction?  City utilities?  Across his lap rested a dozen red roses, tied just so with ribbon and paper.  Somewhere in the evening ahead lay romance.  A wife?  A girlfriend?  An apology?  A first date? 

He is as tall and spare as the instrument that rolls next to him on its own wheel.  It's not every day you see a man and a bass stroll down the street together.  Both jacketed against the weather.  A man and his best friend, his craft, walking through the streets of Brooklyn and navigating life together.