On 186th Street, I see two tiny little girls, way too young to be walking alone, on their way to school. I turn the corner and it's the same scenario, this time two little boys. I suppose the neighborhood is safer than I thought.
I type on my new Blackberry as I walk,trying to get accustomed to the changes in its layout and its look and feel. It's much faster and much better then the last one I had, but not yet configured quite the way I like it.
The platform, when I get there, is quiet, perhaps because I'm so late and most New Yorkers are already at work. Someone I met this past weekend, at a Friday night dinner, is on the platform. I think her name is Jessie (her last name completely eludes me) and she says hello so I smile and wave as I walk by.
I sit on the bench near my spot, taking the last available seat. On my right a woman is wearing a square and circle patterned skirt, circa 1985, with a glittery jacket that could have come from that same decade. She is applying eyeliner using a a cracked mirror. On the other side, to my left, a classy Hispanic woman wearing a brown 3/4 length coat and attractive boots, is looking at my over her small button nose.
On the train, I am barely able to find a seat. Nearby, a woman, red coat draping over her jeans, runs her hands through her shoulder length brown hair and sighs. She drops her head into her lap. At first I think she is crying but then it seems as though she just doesn't feel well, physically. I feel bad but really, I am just hoping she doesn't puke on me. That would be a terrible way for either of us to start the day.
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