I go up to Gramma’s for lunch, but she’s not there, so I pack a tuna sandwich and head back downtown. I partially unwrap the foil and begin to chow down, and while I do I notice a man looking at me. He’s sitting directly across from me. His gaze is slightly troubling and it’s possible he’s locked on an area below my face, like my collar. I look around, avoiding the issue. I look at my neighbor’s study guide, at the cute girl reading a graphic novel across the aisle, and back at the man.
He is no longer looking at me. He is staring at me.
In some cases like this, I tend to stare back. Sometimes they don’t realize they’re staring and break gaze, embarrassed. Once or twice they’ve had something to say, but he is unmoved. Eight seconds pass and I can no longer return his interest. I look everywhere else: his hands, his jacket, the pole, my neighbor’s study guide, the cute girl, and back to my sandwich.
I focus on my sandwich. I keep track of it—every flake of tuna, every morsel of celery. I strategize on which bites have the most mayonnaise and how to avoid the crust. I look back up but my admirer has not found a new point of focus. His head has lowered slightly, as though he’s a predatory animal leveling his eyes at prey. I continue to munch away, but stop to wonder.
“Is he hungry?” My sandwich isn’t the most appetizing thing, with its cheap whole-grain shell. Nonetheless, I am all too aware that when one is truly hungry anything looks good. He doesn’t look very hungry, though. He’s no shabby hobo…not even a gaunt lost man. But I take a chance.
Holding the last bite of the sandwich out from the foil, I ask “Do you want it?” I do my best to maintain a face of sincerity and openness.
No response. Not even a blink.
“No?” I return the last bite to my mouth, feeling rather magnanimous. The last bite of the sandwich may not be a prize, but it’s nothing to turn away in a time of hunger.
Maybe he’s a germophobe.
