Passing Trains

I’m sitting on the 6 watching the 4 weave through spaces of black. Glimpses of the train appear as we travel side by side. The train is identical to mine and there’s people standing in the other car. It feels like we might collide. Time is suspended as we travel from the place we were to the place we are going to be. It speeds up like the express tends to do, passes my train, and then disappears into the unknown. Gone forever.

I moved to New York City a little over a month ago. Little moments surround my life as I navigate alone here. Meet cutes. Missed opportunities. Soft smiles. Walking with purpose across town passing those suits. All those suits.

Does it take a certain person to want to be here? Doing New York in your 20s. Living in small apartment paying too much for rent. Your room is a closet. Or your roommate’s room is a closet if you’re the one who got there first. 5th floor walkup, well actually the 6th floor, because the building has decided to follow the Europeans and doesn’t count the lobby as the 1st floor and has numbered each floor accordingly. Definitely a smooth New Yorker move there. Is it cliché that this is all you ever wanted it or is it some sort of rite of passage for a certain group of people? The ones that will say at the cocktail party, “Yeah, I went to New York too after college for a couple years, it was a good time. Remember BBar?”

No one stays here anyway. That’s the truth. We’re having the time of our life delaying adulthood. Having fun. Who wants to leave a party at 9:30. But it’s all going to end and I’m going to be standing at that cocktail party with all the parents of my son’s third grade class talking about ten years ago when I was living on 78th and 2nd. “Honey, grab the keys, it’s time to go home.” All the Equinox moms and the banker dads. Am I happy now? Am I standing there with my best friend or with some douche bag like the rest of them? Did I make the right choice? How did the rest of this story go?