The elevator smells like cigarette smoke. In all the years I've lived here that's never once happened and as far as I know, there isn't a single person in my building that smokes. I'm suspicious, but also very late, so my thoughts turn quickly towards getting to work as fast as possible.
The weather has warmed up a bit, and the rain has stopped. Mrs. H. is standing on the corner and waves as I walk briskly towards the station, treading on a freshly paved 186th street.
On the subway platform, I pass a girl I could swear was standing next to me at the Fine Frenzy concert last night. I reach my spot and Elvis Guy is there. Anyone who takes the A from 181st regularly has seen Elvis at one point or another. He is an elder gentleman with an unnatural, perpetually Presley hairdo and clothes to match.
Z. is also on the platform and we ride the train together, discussing work at first and then thirty-something single life in Washington Heights, two topics that together cover a large portion of my existence.
0 comments:
Post a Comment