I Only Pray At Night

We drove out of the city on quiet Saturday night expressways. Little Long Island towns flashed past us with idyllic names, unpronounceable by anyone not from them, until at last the car slowed along a main street of small wooden houses and signs announcing various forms of Shoppes. When we stepped into the snowy driveway, the cold sky was full of stars and the clouds of our breaths. Her house was sprinkled with icicles. Winter is alive and well in the suburbs. We make lewd jokes and refill our glasses too often, giggle into the provencal chicken and expand our waistbands as the courses continue. He reminds me of an old friend; I love him instantly. 

There was a man on the train yesterday, buried in the crowds and invisible, who sang his heart out to a Beach Boys Best Of. It was terrible, and loud, and sharp, the kind of singing that is best kept to the shower, and people shifted uncomfortably around his general direction.

But he continued relentlessly, and little by little, the train cleared and emptied. An old man appeared around his voice, gray hair and newspaper in his hand, bopping along till daddy took the t-bird away. People began to smile and look each other in the eye. We exchanged a few words as the train rocked patiently under Roosevelt Island. I tried to offer my seat to an older man who told us he was 77 and still driving a taxi, he'd be happy to stand. I drove Obama once, in the 80s, you know. I wouldn't forget a face like that, but the rest of us thought that he probably might. The song grew louder, our smiles wider. When I left them at Forest Hills, we exchanged pleasantries about taking care and having a good day. The singing man got off the train as well, quiet now and focused on other things. Coming home, perhaps, or supper, or errands.

In so many ways, this city is sweeter and smaller and softer than anywhere else I know. I leaped up the subway stairs. The smile followed me all night.