I’m in love with the Voice on the Train.

I was riding on the Q last month, when the conductor told me that the train was, alas, going Express past my stop and I’d land up at the distant Kings Highway station, where I had to get out, go down the stairs and up again to the other side, catch another Q going in the opposite direction, and backtrack five stops to get back home to Avenue H.

It was a weekend; hinky things happen to the subway system here on weekends-in this case, the Local went Express in one direction to avoid construction. Construction is a code word for one guy in a neon vest smoking a cigarette while three others stand at the ready, to save him in case he catches fire.

Conductors in Brooklyn usually sound like you’d expect Brooklyn train conductors to sound: Prawspect Pawk, youse guys. These are mundane but real guys-or, in some cases, women-and there aren’t many of them left on the Q line.

New state-of-the-art Q trains are now slowly replacing the battered old fleet. On these, the voices are automated. They’re Disneyland Please-step-to-the-right, Please-don’t-stick-your-appendages-out-of-the-tram auto-voices: a blandly-pleasant female alto announcing each stop.

This voice a month ago, however. Man. That was a Voice. It was the voice of a spent jazz singer, an enigmatic man who lingers in smoky clubs, his fedora on the table, his hand wrapped around a Scotch-and-water, a cigarette between his fingers. A guy who leans full, whiskery lips to your ear and tells you-

Anything. Sigh. Absolutely anything you’d like to hear.

And some things you’d like to NOT hear, like the fact that your train is going to pass your stop and deposit you five stops farther down the line because six clowns in orange vests have parked themselves atop a stack of plywood on the Coney-Island-bound platform at Avenue H to swap ham-and-cheese sandwiches and sing Kumbaya.

The thing is, when this particular conductor gave me the bad news-I suppose he told us all, but it felt like his lovely, ragged bass was meant for only me, me, me!-I thought, Oh, Honey, I’ll stay with you for the next five stops. Hell, I’ll go all the way to Coney Island and back with you. Just. Keep. Talking.

But I had to return to my numbing, ordinary life at Avenue H. And so we parted at Kings Highway.

I was bereft.

Weeks passed. I rode many trains. I heard the Disney Lady; I suffered through the usual gaggle of shrug-inducing Brooklynese. I listened for the Voice in vain.

Then, this weekend, I was riding one of the new Q trains, heading home to Avenue H from a Yoga class. I was staring out the window at the blackness of the tunnel, and the Voice spoke. He SPOKE. He overrode the pleasant automated woman and spoke to me, me, me!

Attention, he growled.

I clutched my Yoga mat to my heaving breast.

The next stop, the Voice rumbled—to me, me, me!—is Prospect Park. It will be the last stop. There will be shuttle buses outside to take you to all the local stops from here to Kings Highway. Please follow the signs up the stairs to the shuttle buses.

My heart hammered my mat; my soul reveled in his sweet message, laid so cleverly between the lines: He’d been searching for me, too. We had but this one brief ride together between 7th Avenue and Prospect Park, and then—

All was lost. All was despair. All was a long, jerky, agonizing, traffic-clogged, horrifically inconvenient bus ride that pulled me farther and farther from Him, stopping to tantalize me at every damned corner, while a dozen guys in neon vests danced around an abandoned crane that reached motionless over the otherwise deserted Avenue H station.

Voice, I’m out here, every weekday, among the scattered plywood and scraps of ham and cheese. I’m here, on weekends, leaning on the light post at the shuttle bus stop four long blocks from my station. Voice, dear gravelly voice, wait for me—

Life, and the MTA, can be so cruel…