It was on the train back to her shoebox apartment from the diner that she first saw him.
He wasn't spectacular-looking or particularly impressive in any physical way. There was just a thing -- an unnamable air about him, not a confidence so much as an indifference. The narcissist in her screamed that in him she saw herself. She disagreed; he looked like if he wanted to, he could care. He just chose not to. She admired him.
On the sixth of their mutual train rides, he was seated across the car from her, and she was facing the opposite direction, closely examining the train ads for no reason in particular other than to avoid eye contact with every other person around her. She felt a tap on her shoulder; it was him, asking her, specifically, if she'd like his seat, because he was getting off at the next stop (she knew that, obviously). She was astounded; he had ignored all the old people and the children closer to him to ask her if she wanted to sit down.
It was the most obnoxious thing she'd ever seen anyone do. It was beautiful.
