I felt it before I even opened the door. That specific New York cold that shows up overnight, unannounced, like a relative who said they'd visit next month.
The first cold morning on the 1 train is a whole event, and I was completely unprepared. Fifty-two degrees. I was still dressed for the August that lied to us all last week.
I stood on the platform at 137th Street hugging my own arms like a fool. A man next to me had a full puffer coat on. Sir. It's September. But also, respect. He knew.
By the time the train came I had accepted my fate. I would be cold and I would deserve it, because I checked the weather this morning and chose to ignore it, which is such a me thing to do.
Here's what the first cold morning on the 1 train teaches you, though. Everyone softens a little. The AC finally isn't blasting. People aren't stuck to their seats. There's a collective quiet, like the whole car is bracing for the season together.
A girl across from me had a chai in one of those Greek diner cups and I wanted to propose marriage. So I got off two stops early, went to the halal cart on Broadway near 116th, and got my own. Not the same as my Ba's cutting chai back home. Nothing is. But warm hands are warm hands.
I walked the rest of the way to the office with the cup pressed against my palm, and for one second, with the leaves just starting to turn near Morningside, I felt like I'd been living here my whole life.
Fall is coming. Bring a scarf, unlike me.
Love,