The Commute

City commuters know how it goes: we need something to read. On the days when I’m in between a book or my trusty New Yorker, I grab the free daily paper handed out at the station entrances. If there is any reason why I find myself without anything at all, I feel an initial moment of anxiety. How to occupy myself for the duration of my commute?? Even the best subway billboards only get me through a minute or two! When applicable, I will practice reading upside down as I stand over the lucky commuter who secured both the seat AND reading material. The degree of my disappointment when the material is not in English depends on how much time I can kill by trying to guess what the headline says. “Strajk dzieci we Wrześni” can be a jumping off point for all kinds of things to consider. (Does strajk mean strike? Could it be that easy? Who’s striking? I wonder how one might pronounce ‘dzieci?’) Before I know it, I’m almost at my destination. Ta! Da!

Last week, I found myself crammed into a subway train car on my way home from work. With one hand, I kept myself balanced while the other held my purse. The amount of people sharing the same, tight space rendered impossible my intention to lift my free arm up in order to read the magazine I was carrying. I was on the express train: I had several minutes to stand in this discomfort, with no chance of distracting myself from my present experience.

A woman with her back to me stood so close that her dark, curly hair came uncomfortably close to being in my mouth. I shifted my face to the left, and noticed over her shoulder that she was holding a print out of an email. Ooh! Something to read! I glanced at the text. My eyebrows shot up in surprise. The writer was in great appreciation of her, ahem, grooming habits and how it bettered their love life. A dirty email! On the #4 train! And then – I admit it was wrong – I kept reading.

After the parts that made me blush, he shifted to his total enamoration of her. He wrote of their children and his admiration of her mothering skills. He was so lucky to have her for his wife. He missed her tremendously.

This woman was completely oblivious to her surroundings, devouring this love letter.

For all the living on top of one another that we Manhattanites do, there is an unspoken way of giving each other our space. I have sat beside a couple breaking up at a restaurant where their table was mere inches from mine, and I did all I could not to listen. My neighbors have seen me doing my laundry in my pajamas, and they pretend not to notice that I’m not really dressed. We understand that personal space is not about the physical distance between us but the perceived distance we allow one another. And I had invaded this woman’s privacy because I couldn’t spend six minutes in my own thoughts.

But here I am a week later, still thinking about them, wondering when her husband is coming home, and hoping for their sakes it will be soon. Boy, that will be one hot reunion.