I haven't written a creative story in awhile, so this is a belated birthday gift to my creative self. I saw you today when the doors opened at the Rutland Rd stop on the 3 train. It was another new route, so I wasn't surprised. There are always new things - always new ways the sun reaches across the train tracks to wake up the city.
You walked across my view on the platform as the doors were closing. You didn't see me, sitting inside on the edge of the burnt orange seat and headed in the direction of New Lots Avenue. You were looking down, distracted slightly by your ipod and (I presume) a morning destination. Everyone has a destination in New York.
The dull ring of the bell sounded, followed by the friendly robotic message, "Stand clear of the closing doors." And just like that, you passed from my view.
I kept thinking about you, though - about the laughs we shared together and the campfires we gathered around. I thought about the way we schemed dreams together and made giggles contagious on your living room floor. I thought about the unlikely way we met and the ridiculous series of events that threaded our 'meeting' out into a friendship like a patchwork quilt.
I thought about all that on my way to Junius Street where I caught the L train en route to the J train at Broadway Junction. I took the J train to Crescent Street and then walked to work. But I only do that sometimes, which is why it was so strange to see you when the doors opened at Rutland Rd.
I wanted to say, how are you friend? I wanted to say a lot of things, but I think I wanted more for you to say something to me. It's been awhile since I've had a chance to listen to you.
But it was mostly strange because you do not live in New York and because our friendship has unraveled. It was strange because we haven't laughed in your living room in months. It was strange because I forgot about our scheming dreams.
It was strange because you weren't there at all.