May 16, 2011

There is now a commute to consider.

At one o’clock in the morning, from Williamsburg I take the L to Sixth Avenue to transfer to the F. The F isn’t running at that time, however, so I have to return to the L for Union Square, where I transfer to the N. Then I miss Queensboro Plaza by one stop, having fallen asleep for a minute. At Thirty-third Street, I wait for the Manhattan-bound 7 for half an hour; the station is empty except for me and a man across the way speaking blusteringly into the pay phone, then after I’ve shut my eyes for another minute, listening to the bar’s voices directly below me, I find the man on my platform conducting a similar conversation with this side’s pay phone. Finally a 7 arrives, and I ride the one stop back to Queensboro Plaza, where a breeze keeps all of us company. When I get to Flushing, it is three a.m., and my head has completely emptied. Then inside the apartment, I put on A Tribe Called Quest and dance some more. Earlier that evening, we had danced to the music of not-too-engrossing sixties retro bands. Then I noticed a woman and a man sitting against the wall. She had been in one of the lesser-motivated bands, while he would DJ later. She expected a compliment, but he was the one who got it—I loved his studded hat. They sat for a portrait for me, and then I danced some more.

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