Your erotic stories

I hear the hiss and screech of another train arriving at the platform down below the main level of Alewife station, the end of the Red Line. A metallic smell rises up the stairs on the gust of hot air displaced by its arrival. The doors open with a whoosh, and the clamor of passengers starts up the stairs and the escalator. My stomach clenches as the first faces come into view and the travelers file toward the turnstiles. The Saturday afternoon herd is thin, so it's easy to dismiss the men who come up from the platform: not alone, too short, dark hair, headed straight for the door.... The process of elimination continues until it's clear to me that that was not your train.

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