Riding Downtown

Dear Diary:

I am on the platform at the 168th Street station, absorbed in my phone when a woman’s voice cuts through.

“Which train goes to 59th Street?” she asks. “I’m going to 66th Street, but my friend told me to take the express down and the 1 train back.”

Her eyes meet mine. She teeters on tightly bound limbs.

“I’m going to 59th as well,” I say. “I’ll show you where to get off.”

The A arrives. We get on and sit down. She angles her knees toward me, bag jiggling on her lap. She introduces herself, and then she asks my name in a hurried fashion. It is as though she doesn’t think there will be enough time for everything on her mind if we keep up with the pleasantries.

She tells me she is from Long Island. I tell her I’m from Baltimore. She asks my name again.

“My husband is having a craniotomy tomorrow.” Her nervous energy overflows. “It started with his legs. He was wobbly and uncoordinated. We were taking a walk and he fell into the neighbor’s mailbox and again on a crack in the sidewalk.”