At 8:30 a.m., well-dressed, groggy passengers slump in their hard plastic seats as the Muni trolleys carry them from the Sunset into downtown. I, on the other hand, telecommute from my tiny apartment hidden behind a wall in the Twin Peaks tunnel.

So, when most of the city's upwardly mobile are riding the rails, I'm in my pajamas, nibbling breakfast and watching the commuter parade. At that hour, everyone's too sleepy to notice a young woman peering at them through a dark window in a well-disguised door. Anyway, if they saw my face, they would think they were still dreaming.

I was enjoying my morning ritual -- watching the trains and eating a bowl of Cheerios with rice milk -- when I first saw you.

You have to understand, after a while the bland faces start to look the same. Everyone's skin is pasty under those ghastly fluorescent lights. I had already started to turn away, but then the trolley stopped -- there must have been a blockage up ahead -- and I found my face inches from yours, separated only by your window and mine. Even though there's no way you could have seen me, I took a step backward into the darkness of my room.

You were leaning your head against the glass, dark hair falling into your half-closed eyes. You had earphones on; I craned my neck, as though I could hear the music if I leaned closer. The car stopped long enough for me to study the toffee-colored skin of your throat and the way it contrasted with the pale blue of your starched collar, the darker blue of your pinstriped coat.

Your dusky, full lips were pressed together, as though you were silencing them against some inner thought you didn't want to say. I couldn't help myself: I imagined kissing them, pictured them searching my breasts hungrily.

With elegant fingers you brushed your hair back behind your ear, and then you lifted your liquid brown eyes, fixing them on the door I stood behind. For a moment, I was certain you saw me. I gasped and ducked below the glass, heart thundering, and dropped my spoonful of cereal onto the floor. I counted to 10 -- long enough for the rats to come inspect my spilled breakfast -- and when I stood again, your trolley was gone.

I haven't been able to stop thinking of you since. About the graceful motion of your hand, about the clarity in your eyes as you stared into the darkness.

I'll be watching for you again tomorrow. Write to me, please.

Cody