On the L train

Okay, we really are both going to be late. I have to get a cab, he said as we stumbled out of the bar into the still soft light of spring twilight. April. The crowds were just beginning to look for dinner tables or opening drinks, and here we were, already too many in. A cab came, we forgot to say goodbye, he jumped into the car and I disappeared into the underground, late for the dinner date in Brooklyn. I dizzily climbed aboard the F train, and as the door closed I processed the voice that said the next stop was Spring street and the train was running on the A line. Damn construction. The doors popped open for a second and I jumped out, made my way to the uptown trains and the 14th street L train instead. Slowly the last of the giddy drink seeped into my system and put my head on the floor. By the time the train had reached Union Square, my world was spinning and my forehead was clammy. So many stairs to get out of that deep, dark tunnel before reaching the crisp air up above. I tripped down University Place, attempting to text excuses and direct questioning tourists, but mostly trying to put one foot in front of the other, before finally, finally collapsing in the apartment and having to reveal to my roommate and her dinner guests what I was doing home so early.

$2.25 to ride the subway around the block and get nowhere, but slowly. Five years later, and I suppose that's where we still stand. Same story, every time. I end up dizzy on the streets of New York, but I always come back for more.