At 22

We’d split the New York Times for breakfast, over bodega OJ and bagels on the downtown C train. He’d take the business section and hand me the arts. We’d sit there every morning, shoulders and hips touching, in a comfortable silence for twenty minutes.

I’d skim the Broadway revivals and make a convoluted comment about the need for new scripts and non-Disney money. He’d make a comment about something that I would equally not-understand, related to stocks and bonds, just to make it even. He was numbers, I was words. We somehow managed to communicate. Somehow.

Two stops before my stop, my body would start to constrict. I’d cross and uncross my legs until he’d shift against my fidgeting and put his hand on my knee to reassure me that it wasn’t the last morning like this, although one morning, I knew, it would be. The stop before, he’d neatly fold his paper. I’d nuzzle my chin into the nook of his neck, pressing my nose against his baby down blond hair. He smelled like a drug store generic label like ‘summer rain’ or ‘mountain dew’, but I knew that parts of his smell were original. Those were my favorite. My mouth would plant a goodbye kiss near his ear as the doors finally opened, forcing me into a world without him.

It was six small steps. I’d count them every time. As the doors closed, leaving me on the platform, I’d look back and catch his eye. He’d hold my stare until the train pulled away. I’d wait on the step until it was out of the station completely.

My stuff was at his place, his was at mine. At twenty-Two I thought that was love.

If you enjoy this blog, check out my novels, The Red Rock Cafe & The New York Catch.


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