Had he been at all handsome, I might describe the way he did it as predator-like, stealthy. But since he wasn't, I'll just tell you that he probably did some calculating before making his move.

I was sitting on the R train downtown, traveling Squares. From Times, where musicans beat out rhythms on dingy, overturned buckets, to Union, where you can buy an organic artichoke or have drying graffiti art customized. I was meeting a friend for dinner.

Instead of reading, I stared ahead. When the skinny guy sat down on the same row of seats as me - two empty seats between us - I didn't think anything of it. We were your typical commuter bookends.

But then he leaned toward me and began to talk. "Nice shoes," he gestured with pencil arms, activating a crackly laugh.

"Thanks," I said, looking down. They're leopard print flats with little braids and buckles across the toe. Not something I'd normally wear, interestingly enough. I bought them for $5.

"They go with your bag," the guy went on. Then he curled his fingers to look like claws and growled, "GRRRRR!" with no irony.

I figured he meant that the jungle feline print of my shoes went with the New York Public Library lions on my canvas tote. I gave him a half-hearted chuckle, if that. Maybe quarter-hearted. It was Sunday evening, and no one on the train was talking except him and sometimes, out of good 'ol Southern upbringing, me. We were the one staticky channel getting reception. Everyone tuned in.

"I guess you planned that, huh?" He would not stop talking to me.

"No, I didn't. It's a coincidence," I replied, not even turning to look at him.

Then he told me all I needed was one of those hats those guys wear, and I'd have a whole look. I thought he meant a fez, since he was so hung up on jungle cats and the circus just passed through town, but he said he meant a straw hat with a drawstring at the chin.

"On a scale of one to ten," he leaned in confidentially, "how has your day been?"

Everyone who hears the story says this is where the axe should have fallen. "It'd be at least a nine if you'd stop talking to me!" the girlfriends have all replied.

I was honest. I said a seven, maybe higher once I had dinner with my friend.

At this point, I started to worry I hadn't boarded a subway, but somehow got duped into riding an Amtrak to the West Coast. Could the seconds drip by any slower?

He asked if I had an email address. I said yes. He asked for it. I asked why.

With a bravado only mustered by the absolutely clueless, he fished a piece of graph paper and a mechanical pencil from his pocket. "So I can email you and ask you out."

Whether or not I have a real boyfriend, if a guy doesn't appeal to me, I'm always taken. Almost engaged, practically married, knocked up.

"But I do admire your courage," I added to the letdown. Because I do. It's hard to approach a stranger and put yourself out there. He's braver than me. And I suspect I'm not the first girl he's tried to woo on public transportation.

He seemed to take it hard. When the train stopped, he ran out of the car suddenly. No goodbyes. Graph paper waving surrender like a flag.