The L train stalled between Bedford and First Avenue during the worst of the July heat wave, and for eleven minutes I understood what it is to be a naan in a tandoor.
New York in summer does not play. The subway platforms hit a temperature that has no business existing on Earth. You stand there fanning yourself with a MetroCard that stopped working three years ago, sweat pooling in places you didn't consent to, and you wait.
I was coming back from Williamsburg. Bad decision to be underground at 3pm in July, but I had a fitting and the fitting didn't care about the weather.
When the train stopped, the whole car did that collective New York sigh. Not panic. Just the low group groan of people who have suffered this exact thing before and will again.
Across from me sat a woman, maybe sixty, big straw hat, canvas tote. She looked at me looking like I might dissolve, reached into her bag, and handed me an unopened cold water bottle. Just handed it over. Didn't make it a thing.
I said I couldn't take her water. She said, in the flattest Brooklyn accent I've ever heard, "Honey, you look like you're about to faint on the L train and I am not doing CPR in this heat."
I laughed. I drank. It was the best water of my life.
This is the thing about a heat wave in this city. It flattens everyone into the same misery, and somehow that makes people softer, not harder. We're all just trying to survive the L train together.
We got moving. She got off at First Avenue. I never got her name. I still think about her cold water bottle like it was a small holy thing.
Stay hydrated out there. And if you've got a spare bottle, look around.
Love,