The cool stone bottom brushes my brown skin, its coarse texture scraping the soft flesh. The pain comforting as I submerge deeper. I hold my breath, the feeling heightens. I spread my wings, feathers fall away, the bottom too coarse for their delicate nature. It’s my stop, the A train to High Street. I float down the sunny Brooklyn sidewalk to a place unknown. People mill around me, others walk with determination. They have someplace to be. Right now. Actually, yesterday. It’s New York. Everyone, everything is late. Always. Rush to get there. It was due yesterday, five minutes ago, a second ago.
A movie with a view. The Statue of Liberty stands in the background. Her arms tired from holding that goddamn torch. Stuck in the middle of nowhere surrounded by everywhere as others look to her for something she can’t give. Never could. Never will.
A picnic. Food. Laughter. Wine. Red please. I don’t care for White. Three yellow plastic cups later I’m high as I float across the cold wet grass, contented with the unyielding pain. The crude bottom ripping, scraping at my delicacies tickles my fancy. I could have sex right now.
The clock strikes midnight. Under the cool moon, the streets are quiet. Return back from where I came. My cheek bleeds as invisible tears wet my skin and drop to my bosom. The moment passes and I’m in the next. My breath appears and disappears in even rhythmic tones. I desire change and so I hold my breath. Is this uptown A train express or local? I hate transfers.
The guy in front of me has the shakes. He looks to the floor then sneaks a look over at me before shaking some more. My suffering pauses for a breath. I wonder whether or not he poses a threat to my immediate safety. Within several stops a handful of people sit between him and me and my fears dissipate. He gets off at 42nd Street. Perhaps the train is too crowded for him. I blink. I no longer care.
I bought two bottles of red wine earlier today. I shared one at the picnic. I’m glad I did. The train stops at 50th street. This uptown A train is local. I don’t have to transfer. I could smoke a cigarette right now. I discovered tobacco free cigarettes called Ecstasy a few weeks ago. I feel wicked when I smoke them. I get off on that. Don’t ask me why. My head is all fucked up. I can’t explain it.
I cried this afternoon. I couldn’t stop the tears. They felt good. 81st street. Almost home. That fact brings me no joy. No sigh of content. I can’t wait to light that fucking cigarette. Fake or not.