Ocean Blues

I should've let the phone go to voice-mail. But I figured I could answer the question from the individual on the line and head to Penn Station with enough time to catch my train home. What I didn't expect was the game of phone tag between my boss, the marketing lady on the phone, and myself to take so long.

Forty-five minutes later, I sprint down the hall to the elevator. Once on the street, put my hand up, and yell, "Taxi!" The yellow cab drives past me. Finally, after a couple of minutes, a cab pulls over and I dive in. I have ten minutes before my train leaves.

When I get dropped off, I run as fast as I can down the steps, and sprint to Track 17.

My heart drops as I run down the stairs and see my train leaving. Without me.

Frustrated, I walk back to the noisy street above.

I have an hour before the next train. I don't want to wait in the icky waiting room of Penn, so I walk to this cozy little distillery room I know before I have to head back for the train.

Once there, I sit at one of the stools at the bar, and order some white wine - this way, I know I'll be in a happy buzz, but awake enough to ensure I don't miss my train again.

The bartender pours my wine as I pull out my stylus and begin a sketch on my phone. I thank him, and sip my drink as this gorgeous figure makes his way from the entrance, across the room, and to the bar, a few stools away from mine.

He's tall. Very tall. With light brown hair, and very long legs.

I catch myself gawking at him and quickly turn back to my sketch and my drink.

In a velvety voice, he orders a drink, and answers a phone call quietly. His voice is just as soothing as the smooth jazz playing in the background.

"Don't worry about it, bud. I understand," he says into his phone, "I hope you don't mind if I get a drink without you, though," he laughs. "Have a good night. I'll see you in the morning, okay? Bye," he ends the call.

As the bartender preps his drink, he walks around the bar, passing behind me and goes toward the restrooms.

I look after him, enthralled. I realize I'm staring at the empty wall and turn my attention back to my sketch. Swiftly, I've drawn a very realistic sketch of an eye that's starting out at me from the screen of my phone.

"That's spectacular work," I hear a velvety voice behind me, "did you draw that?" I turn around on my stool. He's standing a couple steps behind me. From his height, he's able to look over my shoulder at the sketch. I grin sheepishly and nod.

"It's amazing. I've always loved art, though I'm not the most talented at it," he chuckles. "Mind if I sit?" I shake my head and turn to face him as he pulls the stool on my left a little closer and sits.

"Are you an artist?" He asks.

"I have always wanted to be," I reply looking at the drawing, "my mother is. I'd love to follow in her footsteps. It's just challenging living here as an artist," I feel a pang in my stomach as I remember the reason I moved to New York - to work as an artist. Instead, I'm working in an office to make ends meet.

He looks up and really sees me for the first time. His eyes are a gorgeous ocean blue. I smile.

"I understand exactly what you mean," he nods. "I'm Andrew," he says with a smile.

From then on, I become less aware of what time it is, and more aware of him.

We finish our drinks. Then, he asks the bartender for two glasses of Obscura Petite Sirah. I've never had this wine before - it's dark and fruity, it smells like cedar wood, vanilla, old cracked leather, and it's sexy like him.

As I converse with Andrew and sip on the aromatic blue-black liquid in my glass, I don't mind that the bar gets busier, that I've missed another train, or that I feel a sweet buzz from the wine.

We laugh, I can't stop smiling, and he's looking at me like he knows me. We talk about ourselves - where we're from, what he does in the city, art school, our families, my dream to go to Paris, and what my goal was when I moved to the city.

As the evening turns to night, and I miss another two trains, he orders two more glasses of Merlot.

"Want my opinion? If you love art, pursue it wholeheartedly. Don't get stuck at a job you hate just to make ends meet. Don't let your dream go. You have the talent. You just need to put in the time to make it happen," he looks into my eyes and it distracts me from all my insecurities screaming excuses in my head. He's right. And truth is, I've been so chicken about the whole art endeavor. I know he's right.

"You have what it takes," he says encouragingly.

We each get another glass of Obscura. The blue label on the bottle reminds me of his eyes.

My eyelids feel heavy, I feel light, and my heart feels happy.

And then I get a text from my roommate asking if I'm okay. I look at the time and realize I've forgotten all about the trains.

I look up into his blue eyes. "I have to go," I tell him sadly.

"Oh, okay," he snaps back into reality, too, "where are you going? I'll walk you," he thanks the bartender and pays the full bill, despite my protests. I get up feeling the world spin and I'm not sure if the cause is the wine or him.

He walks me right to my train. We exchange smiles and thank yous for the evening. I want to say more, but I chicken out and instead, walk onto the train and find a seat. As I settle in for the long trip home, I think of Andrew and our conversation.

It's past 12:30 AM. I know I won't feel too great in the morning, but it was worth it. I wait for the train to take off, my eye lids getting heavier and heavier.

"Is this seat taken?" I jump, startled, and turn to see Andrew standing in the isle, gesturing at the seat beside me.

"What are you doing?" I stutter, my heart racing in my chest.

"I couldn't let you leave without your contact info," he smiles and sits down facing me.

I look into his eyes and he looks back at me, excited.

Next thing I know, we're living together, taking romantic walks down the Upper East Side, prepping food in our kitchen, cuddling at night. We get an adorable little grey kitten, and he sets up an art studio for me to paint in our apartment's second bedroom. We laugh a lot. We argue about who's family to spend the holidays with. We're talking about getting married. And, though, I don't remember exactly how we got here, I've never been happier in my life.

"Excuse me, miss? Miss?" I hear a voice far away. I open my eyes, groggy, and look around, confused. "We've reached our last stop," the train attendant says, "would you like to get off here? The train will be going back towards Manhattan in a moment," he tells me.

I feel a headache coming on.

I scramble for my phone. It's almost 4:45 AM.

"Where are we?" I ask, looking from the attendant to the window and I start to panic a bit.

"We're in Montauk, miss," he replies.

My heart drops as I realize what happened - I'm at the farthest stop from Manhattan. I fell asleep before train's departure. I didn't switch trains like I should have, I didn't get off at my stop. Andrew never got on the train with me - I dreamt it. I'm in the middle of nowhere with no time to go home and freshen up before I've to be at work again.

The attendant looks at me expectantly.

"I'll ride back to the city. Thank you. Sorry about this," I say, embarrassed.

"It's alright, miss. Happens all the time."

The train heads back to NYC. I text my roommate telling her I'm alive.

Four hours later, I'm back in Penn and feeling like I got hit by a car. My head and back hurt. I grab a smoothie on my way and feel a little better. I'm at my desk fifteen minutes before I'm supposed to clock in. I sit there sipping my smoothie, counting down till I'm home and can collapse in bed.

Then I remember those ocean blue eyes. I think of my dream, I think of the life I saw. I've never wanted anything so much.

"If you love art, pursue it wholeheartedly. Don't get stuck at a job you hate just to make ends meet," I hear his words in my head, "don't let your dream go."

I feel a determination I haven't felt in years.

I go online and, with the little money I have saved, I buy my favorite brushes, canvases, and more paints than I can count.

I receive my painting materials a few days later. I stop binging Netflix like I used to every night, and get to work. I make space in my tiny room and I begin drawing and painting all kinds of beautiful things, among them a grey kitten, and the set of ocean blue eyes that rekindled my inspiration. When I feel like I've created enough, I paint some more.

I do lots of research, I reach out to galleries in Chelsea, I figure out how to market my work - I'm getting my art seen. I don't care how long it takes.

As I walk through the streets, I keep my eye out for Andrew, hoping I'll see him again and not be afraid to say more this time.

I continue to paint and practice and improve.

After about six months of hard work, late nights with a brush in my hand, hundreds of emails sent, hours of research and networking, I get an email.

A gallery on the Lower East Side wants to display my work!

That exposition leads to another and another...

With lots of hard work and persistence, I slowly become a full-time artist in New York City. I'm doing what I love every day and it's better than I ever dreamed it would be.

I think it's been a year since that strange night on the train and since I started pouring my heart and soul into my craft. My art is being displayed at the MoMA and many pieces are being auctioned - all proceeds going to charities to support children from underprivileged families that wish to study art.

I look around the crowded room and feel proud, grateful. I look toward the big canvas where I painted those ocean blue eyes, and whisper a silent thank you to that angel in disguise.

And I notice a figure with his back to me, standing in front of the painting, admiring the piece. He's tall. Very tall. With light brown hair, and very long legs. I nearly drop my glass of Obscura.

I walk quickly in his direction, afraid I'm imagining it, my heels clacking loudly against the floor. He hears me behind him, and turns.

I lock eyes with the same pair of ocean-blues as the ones on the canvas.

"This is spectacular work," he smiles at me proudly, and I can tell this dream is about to get even more exciting.