Back On

I can tell from the lights on the elevator panel that it’s headed in the opposite direction, so in an unusual maneuver I take the stairs to the lobby. I just don't have the time to wait.

Outside it's chillier than I thought it would be and not nearly as bright as I expected. I flip my sunglasses to the top of my head; it's the first time since the onset of spring that I wear them.

Michael Z. is walking, holding one of his children's hands, outside the A station. I first met him sixteen years ago but haven't spoken to him since, despite living in the same neighborhood for much of that time.

On the platform, a girl with a flowery white skirt is walking in front of me. She is wearing unseasonably dark fishnet stockings that simply do not belong with her solid flats.

I see Benny S. further up on the platform, the second day in a row. "We're back on," I say, referring to a recent conversation we had about how we always used to see each other on the train but then hadn't for a long time. "Yup," he responds, "we're back!"