New York is frozen stiff. Layers upon layers will not keep the chill
out of your bones, and how the people scurry to their lairs. The
radiator has been on for days straight; it no longer seems to make a
difference. Everything downwind from the draft is painful to touch.
An
old friend writes to ask if I'll be around in March to grab a coffee,
because he'll be in town. But the town he is referring to is Stockholm,
and I realize he doesn't even know I've gone. The absurdity of neglect. Well of course you moved back, he says, in the voice of a person who knows me too well to be surprised. Is it everything you hoped?
The
day's shift is long, and by the time I make my way home the train is
full of Friday night tipsies and Theater District playbills. When the
doors close, an odor spreads, its epicenter quickly discerned by
emptied seats and by 42nd street we have all moved to the next car.
Every stop it fills up with people who realized last station that
somebody shat themselves next door.
Yes, I say, without having to think about it. Every day it's like I fall in love all over again.
The numbers don't add up. I know this.
The point is: they don't have to.
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