On the train home, a blonde twenty-something was rolling through her words, slushingly loud for, you know, enclosed public space. Her companion, a salt and pepper-haired, British-ish man, was kissy kissy. Ain't nothing more romantic than discussing logistics with your mistress. She'll take the bus home! No big deal! Blondie also kept bringing up age, much to the discomfort of older man. She's going to turn twenty-seven, officially... her late twenties. OMG. He has wife and daughters. She has boyfriend with very Irish family and has names picked out for future offspring. Why, why, why so much information in ten minutes? How about a silent affair? Silence is sexy. Oh, Blondie, I don't think he's going to take you to London. Oh, I wanted to gouge my eyes out. Thank god they got off at the first stop. Affairs don't belong on the Northeast Corridor — they inspire thoughts of Murder on the Orient Express.
The cold is bracing, refreshing in some ways — some parts of me like winter — but otherwise it's scooping out chunks of my insides like I'm a tub of ice cream. This is very tiring. Being either a cat or a bear in my previous lifetime, I want to a) hibernate or failing that, b) take lots of naps. a) Going to work and b) dealing with most people were not on this reincarnation/former lives agenda. I'm yearning for hearths and homes and warm cups of sweet drinks and lazing and reading and baking and nice people, but this list is too idealistic and long for my current situation of both asian parent interference/suburban doldrumness/this-is-not-my-kitchenness or batty sublet manhattan crazy this-is-not-my-homeness. I know this arises from my own construction. I should have made something else, but you do what you can. Like I'm missing glue and glitter and all I can make is this origami triangle. Where is my ice-cream center? Is it far away from here?
Photo by: nancymesaaz