TEXT C
Feels like Spring
I stop at the corner drugstore for a breakfast of doughnuts and coffee, and then I race to the subway station and gallop down the steps to catch my usual train. I hold on to the strap and make believe I’m reading my newspaper, but I keep glancing at the people crowded in around mc. I listen to them talk about their troubles and their friends, and I wish I had someone to talk to, someone to break the monotony, of the long sub- way ride.
As we approach the 175th Street station, I begin to get tense again. She usually gets into the train at that station. She slips in gracefully, not pushing or shoving like the rest, and she squeezes into a little space, clinging to the people and holding on to an office envelop that probably contains her lunch. She never carries a newspaper or a book; I guess there isn’t much sense in trying to read when you’re smashed in like that.
There’s a fresh outdoor look about her and 1 figure she must live in New Jersey. The Jersey crowd gets in at that stop. She has a sweet face with that scrubbed look that doesn’t need powder or rouge. She never wears make - up except for lipstick. And her wavy hair is natural, just a nice light brown. And all she does is hold on to the pole and think her own thoughts, her eyes clear- blue and warm.
I always like to watch her, but I have to be careful. I’m afraid she’d get angry and move away if she catches me at it, and then I won’t have anyone, because she’s my only real friend, even if she doesn’t know it. I’m all alone in New York City and I guess I’m kind of shy and don’t make friends easily. The fellows in the bank are all right but they have their own lives to lead, and besides, I can’t ask anyone to come up to a furnished room; so they go their way and I go mine.
The city is getting me. It’s too big and noisy--too many people for a fellow who’s all by himself. I can’t seem to get used to it. I’m used to the quiet of a small New Hampshire farm but there isn’t any future on a New Hampshire farm any more: so after I was discharged from the Navy, I got it. 1 suppose it’s a good break but I’m kind of lonesome.
As I ride along, awaying to the motion of the car, I like to imagine that 1’m friends with her. Sometimes I’m even tempted to smile at her, and say something like" Nice morning, isn’t it" But I’m scared. She might think 1’m one of those wise guys and she’d freeze up and look right through me as if I didn’t exist, and then the next morning she wouldn’t be them any more and I’d have no one to think about. 1 keep dreaming that maybe some day I’11 get to know her. You know, in a casual way.
Like maybe she’d be coming through the door and someone pushes her and she brushes against me and she’d say quickly, "Oh, I beg your pardon, "and I’d lift my hat politely and answer," That’s perfectly all right, "and I’d smile to show her I meant it, and then she’d smile back at me and say, "Nice day, isn’t it T "and I’d say, "Feels like spring. "And we wouldn’t say anything more, but when she’d be ready to get off at 34th Street, she’d wave her fingers a little at me and say, "Good - bye", and I’d tip my hat again.
The next morning when she’d come in, she’d see me and say" Hello," or maybe, "Good morning," and I’d answer and add something to show her I really knew a little about spring. No wise cracks because 1 wouldn’t want her to think that I was one of those smooth - talking guys who pick up girls in the subway.
The train is slowing down and the people are bracing themselves automatically for the stop. It’s the 175th Street station. There’s a big crowd waiting to get in. 1 look out anxiously for her but I don’t see her anywhere and my heart sinks, and just then I catch a glimpse of her, way over at the other side. She’s wearing a new hat with little flowers on it.
The door opens and the people start pushing in. She’d caught in the rush and there’s nothing she can do about it. She bangs into me and she grabs the strap I’m holding and hangs on it for dear life.
"I beg your pardon," she gasps.
My hands are pinned down and I can’t tip my hat but I answer politely, "That’s all right."
The doors close and the train begins to move. She has to hold on to my strap; there isn.’t any other place for her.
"Nice day, isn’t it "she says.
The train swings around a turn and the wheels squealing on the rails sound like the birds singing in New Hampshire. My heart is pounding like mad.
"Feels like spring, "I say.
The female the author is narrating in this text ______.