All the while I wish I were in Manhattan, praying over candles and monogram t-shirts, all to keep the ghosts away.
There are two kinds of people, those who find that escalators are to make things faster and those who seek them to make things easier.
A snug circle formed of the middle aged women, bonding over the age of their chiuauas, whimpering like tempermental children.
Every night you call, I worry-that you will break the news: our fruit had formed, a child was born years in delay.
Walking towards a man who reaches out to another passing by-he was curved in the back, a sombrero upturned at his feet as he half kneeled, half squatted against a wall. I saw him reach out with both hands but his voice was too soft under the grinding of trucks as they passed.
Reaching into my pockets for any coin I could find, I pulled out a lone quarter previously hidden in the folds. This was not enough, but it was a quarter, and something to ease my conscience or appease my yearning to feel guilt for only having a quarter to place in his cup, if he had one.
As I walked nearer, coin folded in the crease of my palm, he turned to me and, from below, asked me for my lighter. I neither smoked nor felt the ability to ask why he would not be needing my quarter and mumbled an apology to the effect, less about the smoke, more about the quarter. I walked off, leaving him to his upturned sombrero and lonely roach.
On the 57 a young male in orange and blue cradled the head of a falling child, pulling him up by the backpack straps to let him sleep still in his seat.
Three bunnies giggle in handicapped seats as a peacoat eyes the personals on the 57 floor.
Four young men trade height as a commodity while an elderly woman nods in agreement with the conversation in her mind.
Each week I sit behind a pair of Hispanic women, picking out what little I know, smiling when they laugh and wondering if they would ever turn my way.
I saw the most beautiful stars tonight; reflections of headlights in the window look like boat lamps in the sky.
What is a Brazilian bikini wax?
The October issue of a Chinese print newspaper included a grimacing pumpkin, vomiting up a flow of gold coins.
I don’t understand how people can put on makeup in a moving vehicle. Were I her, I would have perforated my eye like a cardboard coupon.
A young man in blue breaks apart candy canes; it’s only october, though barely just so.
He, in blue jeans and a jersey, leans in close, staring intently at her lips. She, in pastel fleece, looks off into her own reflection in the window while he plucks a hair from under her nose.
I experienced a tall man walking into a donut shop. The entire length of the sidewalk-at least for the duration I was watching-he had the neck of his shirt pulled up to the bridge of his nose, pressed firmly between his thumb and forefinger. He kept this configuration intact which running the fabric of his shirt towards his brow and back down the cartilaginous length, never exposing his nostrils. The movements worked as though mechanically in step with his pace. He entered the shop, never to be seen again.
A woman sat across from a talkative pair. Either to overhear or avoid disturbing them, she savored her apple quietly the duration of the conversation, each bite a soft and persistent hiss as the meat was torn from the core.
A bearded man in a cabbie cap performs his lip sync cabaret, his hands emphatically rising and falling with the changing of a absent pitch.
I saw a twenty something dressed in a fanny pack-a fanny pack-hanging from her thin hips.
On every street moderately populated with window displays there is a storefront-referred to under the ubiquitous title “bodega”.