I looked up at this man on the train and told him that his fly was left down, but it wasn’t. After he checked it I laughed with nothing else to say. He thought my strange joke funny. We got off at the next stop and he bought me a coffee.
Except I never really said anything to him and instead he caught me staring at his crotch, as I thought about it.
There was an old man passing us, between the vertical bars, singing of heart break. I held up twenty dollars, folded it into his paper cup and said “Honey, you’re singing my song.” He wailed louder and I closed my eyes to hear it better. Two women sitting across from me threw their arms in the air and hummed a deep harmony with his chorus. They clutched their chests and felt the same sorrow between us.
Except, who has twenty dollars to throw around like that? Plus, it’s all the way deep in my purse and the man has already limped past me, passing all the headphones that block his song. Sometimes you have to be a quick draw to be generous.
In this train everyday, in this aluminum box, attached to 10 others just like it, we are all inside our own heads. A fantasy that sways between us, on top of the rusted tracks. It changes every time we step away from the closing doors.
Waiting on this damn train.
Waiting for my heart to change.
Waiting on things to get better,
spilling coffee on my sweater.
New York has suddenly grown so much colder,
but I am so much bolder,
I want this damn train to hurry
up and get here, get there,
doesn’t really matter where.
Maybe a place where all of this will make sense,
where I won’t feel so lost,
and covered in coffee.
Exported from Medium on August 22, 2016.