That slow descent, during which I let the sole of my shoe slide along the metal of the escalator, reminds me of New York City. Sentimental nonsense, perhaps; I'm well aware of where I am. Yet the approach to the trains is an odd moment of recollection, like clumsily finding a flashlight in a darkened house. I descend into the gloomy warmth, and make eye contact with the patient contemplative types, of whom I'd like to think that I have something in common. This comfortable and lonely state occurs, where I can let things pass through; I allow myself to be battered by people in a hurry, letting them bump and pinball past. What do I care? I'm just reminiscing, after all.
I am not the subway wallflower always; I've been the gruff local, the city has felt mine, and I've cut lines without apologies. Those moments when you seethe with dismissive energy: shrugging off panhandlers, staring directly at shit-stained newspapers crumpled in corners, leaning your head against filthy surfaces of all types, snarling at tourists as they fumble with maps and language. When I get there, finally, I don't fumble with tickets, and I don't care which exit, or slow down. The subway spits me out above, and I'm the result of its chewing tobacco habit, a brown glossy moment on concrete.
Not remarkably, I wait. I lean, and slouch, and shrug, and wait. The humid breeze swirls around the platform, which feels like it's almost entirely generated by the movement of people, by their muggy pressure systems. It smells familiar, and faintly edible, like noticing your stew simmering in the kitchen from another room. The breeze shifts and gains speed, loses its character, and forces movement, either toward it or away. I look into the wind, look for the light down the darkness, and line up. I'm calm and thoughtless with anticipation.
Inside the cars, however, I guarantee my stop with borderline paranoia. This is a careful process; I'm balancing my panicked need to know with my need to appear casual. Here I remind myself that no one knows, is aware, or cares about me, and I sound like a broken record. "Who's fooling who?" a voice replies; I've never been able to put one over on myself.
Once I've triple-checked, my thoughts can scatter back to their countless pointless dilemmas, and they drift, inevitably, to you. I'm back in New York, and the city is killing us. You are drifting away from me; against an incredible skyline, on streets lined with elm trees, while swimming in the Hudson River, faking sleep to listen to you breathing - still drifting away.
The subway car is full of your features, and I'm examining them, imagining. I'm kissing the lips of the girl to my right, with your expressive dark eyes and smirk of a mouth; she is you and unaware. These are subway thoughts, underground always, and with me.
I am not the subway wallflower always; I've been the gruff local, the city has felt mine, and I've cut lines without apologies. Those moments when you seethe with dismissive energy: shrugging off panhandlers, staring directly at shit-stained newspapers crumpled in corners, leaning your head against filthy surfaces of all types, snarling at tourists as they fumble with maps and language. When I get there, finally, I don't fumble with tickets, and I don't care which exit, or slow down. The subway spits me out above, and I'm the result of its chewing tobacco habit, a brown glossy moment on concrete.
Not remarkably, I wait. I lean, and slouch, and shrug, and wait. The humid breeze swirls around the platform, which feels like it's almost entirely generated by the movement of people, by their muggy pressure systems. It smells familiar, and faintly edible, like noticing your stew simmering in the kitchen from another room. The breeze shifts and gains speed, loses its character, and forces movement, either toward it or away. I look into the wind, look for the light down the darkness, and line up. I'm calm and thoughtless with anticipation.
Inside the cars, however, I guarantee my stop with borderline paranoia. This is a careful process; I'm balancing my panicked need to know with my need to appear casual. Here I remind myself that no one knows, is aware, or cares about me, and I sound like a broken record. "Who's fooling who?" a voice replies; I've never been able to put one over on myself.
Once I've triple-checked, my thoughts can scatter back to their countless pointless dilemmas, and they drift, inevitably, to you. I'm back in New York, and the city is killing us. You are drifting away from me; against an incredible skyline, on streets lined with elm trees, while swimming in the Hudson River, faking sleep to listen to you breathing - still drifting away.
The subway car is full of your features, and I'm examining them, imagining. I'm kissing the lips of the girl to my right, with your expressive dark eyes and smirk of a mouth; she is you and unaware. These are subway thoughts, underground always, and with me.
