The rhythmic sound of the subway train pulling into the station jerks me awake from my daze. The faint screeching of the brakes as the wheels come to a stop reminds me of where I am. There’s the hiss of the opening doors and people shuffling back and forth, trying to find a seat.

I stare at the cover of one of my favorite books, The Idiot. I cradle it in my hands as I return from the funeral that was held in Jersey.

See, I chose this book to keep me company for several reasons today.

The Idiot, by Fyodor Dostoevsky, is the melancholic tale of a man too good for his own good—my mother loved comparing us, me and the Idiot, that is. Prince Myshkin; that's the Idiot’s name. And often, my mother would call me her 'very tall' Prince Myshkin.

It's a very depressing book, but then I feel like ‘depressing’ and ‘Russian’ are pretty much synonyms in literature. In fact, the whole shtick of the book is this guy who behaves as well as a human possibly could but still gets screwed over at the end of the day. Really, that's it. That's the book. I'm not joking. Well, maybe that's unfair.

See, The Idiot by my beloved Dostoevsky, after whom my spiteful cat is named, is actually the tale of a man so good that he gets the worst out of people. In essence, it’s a parable of how someone with a pure soul will never prosper in today’s society—well, I say today, Dostoevsky would have said 19th century Russia.

Trust me, in a way, I wish that I was Myshkin or that I could be as good as him. The one thing we really have in common, though, is that we are both as unlucky as it gets.

But even though I'm not as good as Myshkin, I still try to be. And that, I suppose, is my main problem. I’m not a saint. Far from it. But I try to be good. I try to help people. I try to be kind. But it never quite works out.

You see, the world is not a kind place. It’s not a place for idealists or dreamers. The world is a place for people who are shrewd and know how to work the system.

I’m not one of those people.

I’m just a man with a broken heart and an overflowing soul, trying to make sense of my slice of reality. And I'm just trying to find my place in a world that doesn’t care about me.

However, all the philosopher's act leaves me as I see a strikingly beautiful woman enter the subway and sit right across the aisle from me. I raise my eyebrows and decide that instead of keeping metaphorical company to Myshkin, I might busy myself with engaging with the fairer sex. Nothing better than that to heal a broken soul, am I right?

See, sometimes, a book is the crucible of my melted soul, keeping the amalgam of my raw emotions together while my own ethos tries to figure out the next step.

But when you are on the sweaty subway and your newly-found, chestnut-haired crush is holding Crime and Punishment in her hands, well, my pal Myshkin and my dear Dostoevsky are just a good excuse to: one, stare at the lady without looking like a total creep; and two, usually, check out weirdos without risking a punch to the face.

Three, I guess: to get a broader view of the world, to enlarge the scope of your own soul, and... yadda, yadda, yadda.

Books are cool and all… but let’s move on to more important things.

My extremely hot crush is already perusing her book after getting on the subway just one stop after me. On the other hand, I hold onto Myshkin’s coat with my right hand and Dostoevsky’s lurid beard with my left as lucky charms. Look, don’t judge me, ok? I need to figure out whether she’s crazy or not.

Why crazy, you ask? Tsk.

Reading Russian literature is a red flag—that’s why.

And you might say, well, Joey, you read Russian literature yourself; isn’t that a red flag? And yes, people, it is. So would I date myself under normal circumstances? Well… let’s just keep whatever the answer is from this beautiful girl, shall we?

“You got a good look? Can I sell you something?” The girl suddenly stares at me with a raised eyebrow, having caught me trying to come up with a good pickup line.

I raise my copy of the dead Russian writer’s work and wink at her with a tongue-click—that’s my signature move. “You know, I must confess my crime—I was staring,” I say as I nod at her book.

Please, God, let this stupid line work.

“Yeah? And what might be the punishment, then?” she actually laughs.

Oof, that was close. I could have been called a pervert or pepper-sprayed—but Lady Luck is evidently on my side today. The sole fact that she engaged with the joke means she’s probably single—and ready to mingle.

“We are both coming back from Jersey. Been there several times in the last few days; that’s punishment enough.”

I really hope she’s not from Jersey.

She laughs out loud as any proud New Yorker would. Thank God. I’ve made that mistake multiple times before, and I didn’t want to make it again—the mistake being both confusing someone from New Jersey with someone from the city and dating someone from Jersey.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

Okay now, Fyodor, listen up. I truly hope you didn’t give this woman any weird ideas with your books. Look at her, my loquacious writer. She laughs at my jokes, is hot, and has not pepper-sprayed my face yet—I’d argue that totally qualifies as wife-material. Wholesome, classy, maybe bookish? I mean, that’s it!

There’s one beat, one lulling moment in our eyes as we both wait for the other to say something, knowing full-well that the conversation could die as soon as one of us turns their head. And wouldn’t that be a terrible outcome?

But you know what, Fyodor? Let’s avoid writing a hundred-and-fifty-page prologue to this new love story like you did in that treacherous book she’s holding. Here we are, talking about asking my charming subway crush out! Ha! You wish, Fyodor, you had something this interesting to write about! This is a much more serious matter than your stupid, premeditated homicides!

“Nice suit,” she suddenly says, still not breaking eye contact.

I’m wearing a custom-fitted Italian piece, celebrating my heritage and also celebrating how much my money my mother loved to spend on my clothes. She chose this one—I mean, she would choose pretty much all my suits.

“Italian,” I say with another custom wink.

“Your grandparents?”

“Actually, my parents. I’m second-generation Italian-American,” I click my tongue again, more as a reflex than anything.

Honestly, why would someone write a hundred and fifty pages about murder? Killing someone is easy! And why should I care about it? But romance? Despite all the crime shows popping up in the last fifty years, my dear Fyodor, romance is still worthy of more thought than murder.

As she stares back at her book, I suddenly feel my heart plunge. Minutes go by, and our interaction becomes more and more distant. Why is she just staring at you, stupid Russian gambling addict?! Come on, Fyodor, do me a favor! Make this thick, unreadable tome catch on fire! Please! PLEASE!

Was this all just a fever dream? Maybe it didn’t actually happen. Maybe I went crazy and imagined her flirting back?

I’m trying to blink very loudly to alert her of my presence once more, but I fear my presence has been ignored. I can’t believe this! Why does Lady Luck always frown at me? Why can’t I get a smile instead? Just one?! Alas, it is time to commit seppuku. Goodbye, life; it’s time for me to ascend to another world and—

The girl looks at me.

“Hi, again,” she laughs a bit dorkily. “Do you want my number, perhaps?” She winks and clicks her tongue.

Breathe, Joey. Breathe.

I know, I know. My new subway crush has just used my move. And just like that, she has stolen both my move and my heart.

Here we go. Civilization is ending, isn’t it? Cute subway girl wants to give me her number just like that? That can’t be.

“Gosh, I was afraid you’d never ask,” I say as I whip out my phone—ok, I forgot my phone in Jersey and only whipped my old hand out the pocket. Shoot. I gotta buy a new one now. “Tell me your number. I have a good memory,” I say as I sneakily take a pen out of my pocket; it’s something I needed to sign some documents with—something that almost gave me a heart attack just a few hours prior to this.

You know, I truly consider writing with a pen, or even a pencil, in books the vilest crime on Earth. It’s a mighty despicable act. Who do you think you are to highlight a book with your silly colors? What on Earth goes on between your ears when you color in a classic just to post a picture of it on Instagram, huh? You should have maximum respect for—

“Ok, it’s—”

I scribble the number on a random page in my book since my memory is probably the worst thing I have.

“Would you look at that,” I joke, “sometimes, I do get lucky.”

Miraculously, I manage to hide that I’m defacing a book for a woman. But you know, loose morals and female company make for the best of stories, isn’t that right, Myshkin? But see, unlike you, pal, Lady Luck is finally turning her good side to me.

She and I... we do some small talk. I mean, it’s not actually so small. We talk about books, Russian literature, and other brainy stuff while I try to, mh, take a good glance at—let’s see, uh—maybe a D-cup?

Everyone has their priorities, my man. No judgment. Come on, this doesn’t happen in real life! I need to make sure she’s actually Human! What if she’s an alien hiding in Human clothes? How else would you check but by the shape of the bosom, huh? An alien would have boobs too perfect to be true! So, what I'm doing now is nothing more than interstellar patrolling!

At first, I chuckle, but the next moment, I start to worry. See, this is one of those scenarios that can't really happen in real life, can it?

Ugh, I can see tomorrow’s headlines already.

‘Joey Luciani gets asked out by a girl on the subway, the moon explodes, and now, the tides are swallowing the entire planet! Thank you very much, Joey! This is all from the end of the world!’

Nah, too long to fit in the newspapers. Maybe they would do a TV service as the world was ending. Yeah, that’s more like it. Perhaps a Netflix show, promptly copied a few minutes later by Apple TV.

"Hey," she looks at me funnily, "were you listening?"

"Oh, sorry. I got distracted for a second."

"Better not get too distracted," she winks at me.

"I won't; don't worry," I smile widely.

"I like that," she winks again.

Huh.

“I’m Vanessa, by the way,” she winks—again.

Now, after three winks, I start fearing she might have a tic or something.

Here we go; it couldn’t be a normal one, could it? Nope, not for me! She has a tic! That was way too many winks, wasn’t it? But should I ask her if she has a tic? It doesn’t seem like the wisest dating move.

What do I do? I’m already way too deep in to pull out now!

“I’m Joey,” I wink back.

So, putting the tic questions aside for a moment, I start spelling out my phone number for her and tell her I’ll probably get it back tomorrow. But, ah, who am I kidding? I’m taking the first train back to Jersey as soon as this gorgeous gift of God gets out at her stop.

She smiles again, and, as if it was a movie scene, the subway stops exactly as her smile ends; she winks at me one last time, making my heart jump out of my chest, and then she gets off.

Emboldened by Lady Luck, I try the unthinkable.

It’s time for the cheesiest move in the world! It’s time to ask her out to dinner tonight right now! Maybe I’ll even kiss her! Why not! Today, nothing can go wrong! Nothing! I feel like I’m on top of the world! The cutest girl just asked me out! I’m invincible! I have finally defeated luck!

I jump out of my seat, running at the closing doors, barely making it through them. Not even Brad Pitt wading through a horde of zombies would look as cool and unfazed as I did!

Then, I blink.

I blink again.

And I blink another time, just to make sure.

Yeah, this is not the New York subway, is it?

A vast treasury with enormous riches and artifacts stands before me. Swords, your standard straight-out-of-a-comic-book golden coins, some more glittering swords, armors on mannequins, or just armor pieces thrown around in the hills of golden coins to make it look fancier.

“A truly artistic and well-placed hoard,” I find myself sighing with a hint of boredom.

See, I am not shocked.

What did you expect from me?

Should I be surprised that I just traveled in space, time, or whatever, after my subway crush asked to exchange our numbers? What did you expect exactly? Because I’m telling you, this is exactly what I would have expected.