You could tell he loved her by the way he touched his face to her hair, eyes closed. His arm around her waist protected her from the push and pull of inertia on the barreling train, but even as he shut out inertia from his girl with his embrace, she only felt his gentleness. He was handsome, young, and had a look of someone with strong, admirable convictions. At first, I could only see her hair, which was dark like mine, long like mine, and layered unlike mine. Then I saw her nails, not long and fake, but painted and glittering. I wondered if he liked the way her nails looked. Then I saw her hands, white and delicate, extremely feminine. She never stepped out of his arms and held on to his neck, his back, his waist, as long as it was a part of him, she would hold on. His eyes closed for a long time, but I doubted he was sleeping. I imagined he was simply bathing in bliss, in love. What a lucky guy. What a lucky girl. When she turned her face to his chest, her profile showed thick mascara and a tall nose. I thought she would be Asian, especially since he looked like a half Asian. He had a sharpness characteristic of Caucasians, but they were softly smoothened, as if by an artists gentle fingers. No, as they sat down, I saw her face and she was beautiful.

I snuck glances at them as much as I could. It wasn’t hard to realize that I was in love with their love. It was love at first sight. No one else shined through the crowd the way they did, but as brightly as they shined, they were blind to their own brilliance. That is bliss–amnesia-oblivion-inducing bliss.