On the R train today. She was half-asleep, covered by her hoodie such that I was not certain it was her. Hands exposed, I can’t help questioning what it meant that she had a ring, a rock no less, and that the rock has rolled. Maybe it just does not make sense to wear it at whatever job she reports to. Maybe she lost it. I’m certain I saw it, but only once. She did not look like the confident, strng woman I observed previously. That is not a comment, just an observation. A passing observation as if caring for a stranger is perfectly appropriate.
With somewhat warmer weather and the N train being a bitch about things I’ve walked the extra distance to the R at Steinway Street. They are not as numerous as in the summer months but the ballers and bangers and clubbers and whatever else they’re called today still ake their pilgrimage to the St. James Deli on 34th Avenue, home of Astoria’s most famous tacos. Or maybe not. They were famous to me and the others when I spent a few months living the nightowl life, leaving the bar at 10am smelling like an ash tray because smoking was allowed in the illegal overnight bars.
As I passed the small but raucous gather at St. James today I found myself looking at windows in the apartment builsings and houses, wanting to know what lives were being lived behind those thin sheets of glass. As I left my building the stark, full-visible image of a new neighbor across the street appeared in his kitchen window. I’ve seen countless people pass through that apartment, never knowing or trading words with a single one. The naked dudee seems to have moved on but the mixed-race couple, where the dude might have been 6’3″ tall and the woman a petite 5’1 and 100 pounds, always intrigued me. They sat on the stoop and had long conversations, about what? I don’t know. They seemed emotional but I’ve found that appearances of deep, bonding, soul-searching conversation often end up being conversations about who’s going to wash the dishes and how many napkins are left in the napkin drawer.
I used to see a big-breasted woman who lifted her breasts under crossly-folded arms. Defensive by appearance I never knew anything except that she posted an announcement that her driveway was for reant for large vehicle parking. At the time that would have been perfect for me, as I had a large Lincoln Town Car and the opportunity to park it right across the street within eyeshot would have been awesome. But I missed it. Someone else got the spot, and I believe it was that big-breasted woman who informed me of this via email.
We don’t communicate as people anymore. The conversations we have in digital spaces filla meta space in the streets and in the air.
I saw her again the R today. I may see her again tomorrow. Today I should see the Muslim girl who last week talked about talking about me with her friends or maybe family. They were talking about how I get 10,000 steps in every day and she was asking how that’s even possible when I work a full-time sit-on-ass-all-day job. It’s actually easier for me to get 10k in a work day than a free day because of the structured time. But I get those steps almost every single day, coming up on 365 days with only 5 or 6 days skipped. In the culture of streaks you’re allowed to skip a day here or there.
Today I’ll see the Muslim girl, tomorrow I’m hoping the beautiful, and I mean gut-achingly beautiful black woman reappears. After our first positive-feeling encounters she has not returned to this workplace in 2 or 3 weeks. I have no idea what her name is or anything else about her.