I have a problem, and the problem is iced coffee.
Every morning I buy one from the cart outside the 68th Street station, and every morning I convince myself I can hold it, my tote, my phone, and my dignity on the 6 train. Reader, I cannot.
This Tuesday the 6 train was doing that thing where it lurches like it personally hates you. My coffee jumped its cup. Ice everywhere. A little brown puddle heading toward a man's very clean white sneakers.
I did the full Bollywood horror face. You know the one — Kajol in the last ten minutes of any movie. I started apologizing in that manic NYC way where you say sorry four times before the person even reacts.
And the man just laughed and handed me a napkin from his bag. "First coffee of the day is always a sacrifice," he said. Then he got off at 51st and I never saw him again.
That's the thing about the 6 train at 8AM. It's crowded and sweaty and everyone smells faintly of deodorant losing the fight. But there's this quiet agreement between all of us that we're in it together, packed body to body, pretending we can't hear each other's music.
I used to think New York mornings would feel glamorous. Like I'd be gliding through the city in a trench coat with a purpose. Instead I'm clutching a half-empty coffee, my kajal already smudged, running the mental math on whether I can make it to my desk before my manager.
But honestly? I love it. The 6 train at 8AM is the most honest place in the city. Nobody's performing. Everyone just wants to survive till lunch.
My mummy calls during my commute sometimes, and I have to whisper because the train is too loud and too quiet at the same time. She asks if I'm eating. I say yes while balancing a coffee I will inevitably spill.
Tomorrow I'm going to buy the small size. I say this every day. I am lying to myself and to you.
Some mornings the city hands you a napkin. Take it.
Love,