Paying Attention

There are wet, wilted flowers in the courtyard this morning. I'm not sure what kind they are, but they're white, and small, and they grow every Spring but are gone by the end of April.

186th Street is plagued with a putrid smell of sewage, probably owing to the red septic truck parked around the back of 110 Bennett. On Overlook, an elderly man seems to be having trouble walking and starts leaning against a nearby wall, as if to catch his breath more easily. I ask if he's OK and he says he's fine and thanks me. I'm not the only good Samaritan in town, a moment later I hear someone behind me ask the same question.

Inside the tunnel a tall, lanky man, in his early twenties, drops his newspaper, trips over it and starts shouting four letter expletives at it. He keeps walking but leaves the paper behind.

I can hear the train pulling into the station just as I reach the turnstile, but I don't run for it. Down the stairs, only one person is left on the platform once the train leaves, and we both sit at the same bench. She is young, with dirty blond hair that has been thoughtfully dyed and neatly straightened. She is wearing a skirted suit, high heels, and pearl earrings. From the way she is sitting - with her hands folded on her lap - and the way she is twirling a rubber band between her fingers, I'd guess she is anxious, on the way to an interview or an important meeting. The next train arrives and we both stand up and walk towards it; she looks at me and cracks a small smile.