The first cold morning on the 1 train arrived without warning today, and I was the fool in a linen dress and sandals, arms crossed, pretending I chose this.
I got on at 137th Street, half asleep, still tasting the chai I'd made too fast. And then the doors opened and this gust came through the platform and I actually gasped out loud. A man in a Carhartt jacket looked at me like, obviously.
Summer left the way my dad leaves parties. No announcement. Just gone, and you notice the empty chair later.
The first cold morning on the 1 train always does this to me. It's the city clearing its throat, telling me the season I loved is over and I didn't even say goodbye properly. I never do. I'm still emotionally in August somewhere near Riverside Park.
By 96th Street a woman offered me half of her scarf. Actually offered. In New York. I almost cried, which is embarrassing, because it was just a scarf and I am just cold.
Here's what nobody tells you about the first cold morning on the 1 train: it's when the whole car suddenly smells like coffee and wet wool and everyone's shoulders go up an inch. We become a little herd of hunched strangers, all secretly relieved that the sweating is over.
I got off at Times Square, which I hate, but the work commute demands it. Bought a hot chai from the halal cart guy who now knows my order. Ek chai, extra kadak. He doesn't call it that but he makes it strong and that's love in this city.
My mummy texted me a photo from Ahmedabad. 34 degrees there. She wrote 'wear something warm beta' like she felt the draft from across the ocean. Mothers are just weather apps with feelings.
Tomorrow I will bring a jacket. I know I won't. I say this every year and every year the first cold morning wins.
Summer, you left the party early again. Rude. See you next June.
Love,