The 2 train at 96th Street sat in the tunnel for eleven minutes today. No announcement. No apology. Just the collective sigh of a full car and one man eating a bacon egg and cheese like the world wasn't ending.
A year ago this would have wrecked me. I'd have been sweating through my linen, doing frantic mental math about how late I'd be, texting apologies to nobody in particular.
But today I just stood there. The AC was actually working, which in a New York July is basically a miracle on the level of finding a seat on the L at 6pm.
I let the 2 train at 96th Street hold me for those eleven minutes. I watched a little girl in a yellow dress fall asleep on her Ba's shoulder, and something in my chest went soft. My own Ba used to do the same thing on the bus in Ahmedabad, my head bobbing against him while the whole city rushed past the windows.
Somewhere between Harlem and midtown, I made a small decision. I'm done treating my summer like a to-do list.
The thing nobody tells you about the 2 train at 96th Street, or any New York commute really, is that the city will always give you these forced pauses. The delays. The sick passenger at Chambers. The rerouted weekend service. You can spend your whole life resenting them, or you can let them be the only stillness you get.
I got off at 72nd instead of my usual stop and walked the rest of the way through the Upper West Side, past the fruit stand guy who always overcharges but always smiles. Bought a mango even though it wasn't as good as home. It never is.
Eleven minutes underground and I came up a slightly gentler person.
Maybe that's the whole point of a New York summer. Not the rooftops. The pauses.
Stay a little longer than you need to, okay?
Love,