I knew it was October the second I stepped onto the 6 train at 68th Street this morning. It smells different now. Wet wool, somebody's cinnamon coffee, the faint damp of umbrellas that didn't quite dry.
Summer on the subway smells like regret and warm garbage. But October? October on the 6 train smells almost romantic. Almost.
There's a chestnut cart outside the station now, which means the city has officially decided it's fall. The man running it nodded at me like we have an understanding. We do. I buy a dollar bag I never finish and feel like a woman in a movie.
Uptown was doing its thing. The pre-war buildings looked smug in the grey light. A woman in a camel coat power-walked past me holding a latte and a yoga mat, and I thought, someday that confidence will be mine. Probably not. But someday.
I had my mum on the phone from Ahmedabad while I waited for the train. She asked if I'm wearing enough warm clothes. I said yes. I was lying. I was wearing a thrifted blazer and shivering like a drenched pigeon. Some things don't change no matter how many winters I survive here.
The thing about October on the 6 train is that everyone softens a little. People give up their seats. A kid dropped his MetroCard and three strangers reached for it. New York pretends to be hard but autumn reveals its soft underbelly.
I got off at Grand Central and stood under that green ceiling with the gold stars for exactly thirty seconds, like I always do. It's my little temple. My daily aarti to a building that will never know my name.
Then I ran for the shuttle because I was late, obviously.
Fall in this city doesn't announce itself with leaves. It announces itself with the smell of a train car full of people who finally stopped sweating.
Wear a coat. It's colder than you think.
Love,