Another Monday with New York State flood warnings. We have fallen into routine, apparently. I eat left over Sunday dinner and write lists, to evoke some semblance of productivity. Still, a Cuban cafe con leche lingers in my blood stream, a speakeasy IPA, and I am content, taping packages, checking bank statements, scouring airline websites. Ignoring FAQs about pneumonia, I swallow ephedrine cold pills to dampen the symptoms, but all that happens is that adrenaline rushes through my systems, making my eyes perk up. Who needs antidepressants.
Maybe it's just spring. Maybe it's just my hibernated self bubbling back into the nerves. Why would I fight that?
Last night, at my stop on the one, two young men got stabbed to death in a subway car. After all my orating about the safeties of the village, about never feeling scared, a Saturday night out got a gruesome ending right here, right underneath my feet. Suddenly, my comforting womb of underground tunnels appears a death trap out of which there is no escape, no apology, until the next stop is called and the doors can open to let you out.
Life is treacherous. Navigate best you can, lock your doors. Just don't forget to dance, too.
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