Manhattan to Queens

Inside the subway car, it is warm and stuffy, and so humid you could almost drink the air. The speckled black floor is sticky against the soles of my shoes, which peel away like duct tape every time I move my feet. Someone must have spilled coffee in here earlier in the morning, because every now and then, a dank whiff of hazelnut rises in the thick air. It mixes with another scent—danker, and sour.

The woman across from me is talking to the person on her right. She has been talking since I got on the N train at 23^rd Street, but the other person has not said a word. Her voice is high and pierces through the low music beating in my earphones. I can hear most everything she is saying, but I don’t understand it. She speaks Italian, quickly and with a natural fluidity. Even though I took Italian in school, I cannot follow, though I wish I could.

Soon the train rumbles through the tunnel that connects Manhattan to Queens, moving faster than it moves at any other part of its journey. The train makes a loud racket that drowns out all other sounds, including the woman’s passionate conversation. I read her lips as she swears to herself in English and throws up her hands at the clamor, waiting for the noise to cease so her conversation may continue.

There is a man beside me taking up much space. His legs are spread wide, and he is well-dressed. Across the subway car, in the reflection behind the Italian-speaking woman’s head, I see that he has blondish hair. He wears a light blue, buttoned shirt. His silver tie clip catches a glint of light, and I notice it for the first time. He is wearing eyeglasses, rectangular black frames that add symmetry to his face. He shifts his weight to pull something from his back pocket, and he bumps my back with his elbow as he returns to sitting. As he moves, I smell on him the culmination of a long, August day—sweat mingled with a lingering hint of cologne.

At each subway station, people are exchanged. Some depart, and new people board—young and old, tall and short, in groups or traveling on their own. I get off the train at the last stop, and my blond seatmate follows suit. I descend the stairs, and upon stepping off the curb, I step straight into a murky puddle of water from who-knows-where. The water is dirty and sinks into my shoes. As I start the walk home, I feel sweat forming on my back and neck. I want to take the bus, but waiting for it frustrates me and seems unproductive.

I reach home in twenty minutes and slide my key into the lock on the gate, which is scorching from baking in the sun all day. The dog is in the yard and jumps to greet me. His ragged nails make a trail on my skin. Together we climb the tile steps and enter the house, and I close the heavy iron door behind us.