Two nights ago Chiara met me after work so that we could stop at a Sephora and buy nail polish. (We just needed it.) We walked home afterward, through parts of the NYU campus and then Washington Square Park, and whenever she’d say, “Isn’t this part pretty?” I would look up and see that yes, she was right, it was. I am not sure why I’m not noticing that or thinking that on my own. When we were almost back to our apartment she said, “I feel like you don’t like the city part of New York that much. You’re fine living here but it seems like you kind of hate the actual city.” I was shocked, because I’ve only been here a month and first week aside I feel like I’ve been in good spirits and have not once questioned whether moving here was the right thing to do. I told her she wasn’t totally right, but I guess she wasn’t totally wrong either. I’m not that excited about the structure itself (at least not yet, and it is very early), but I’m not unhappy to be in it.
The F train this morning was extra-crowded, to that point when people are touching fingers to the ceiling or staggering their feet to balance because there aren’t any bars left to hold. It was hot, and slow. This cute, really short couple got on a few stops after I did and stood facing each other, closing up space in each other’s nooks. They were just standing there, her using him for balance, but it was sexy, somehow, at 9:30 in the morning. They’d probably have liked to be off the subway but it was fine. And then, too, on the other side of the car, there was a group of young girls, maybe 13 or 14 years old. You could tell which two were best friends because one stuck her hand through the loop on the top of the other girl’s backpack and held onto it the whole time, kind of yanking her friend around whenever the car jerked into motion. They were going somewhere together. So I think the way I feel about living here is a little like that.