You: burly construction worker with shaved head, wearing a Gold's Gym tshirt on a late-night W train to Brooklyn. You settled in next to me, though the car was practically empty, and nonchalantly whipped out an oversized swiss army knife from your paint-splattered jeans. My life flashed before my eyes as I imagined you stabbing, corkscrewing, or sporking me to death with your utility gadget, but my fears were unfounded. Instead, you gingerly pulled out the nail file and began to delicately shape your nails, wiggling your fingers in front of your face from time to time to (presumably) admire your reflection in your shiny fingernails. You must have noticed me glancing at you because then you turned to me, curled your upper lip a la Billy Idol and, still filing, asked, "How you doin?".
Me: small girl, creeped out, trying to shield herself from the nail sawdust you sent my way. I'm doing fine, and can't wait to see you tweezing your eyebrows on my next ride home.