Being with you feels like summer.
Art by Celene
We’re sitting on the D-train trying to get back to Manhattan and you’ve got your hair all over the place — the static from the station could be the cause but your hair is always on everyone’s shoulders and laps. You look dazed and are smiling — happy — even after enduring an hour-long bus ride on the Brooklyn Local, as opposed to that nice twenty-minute express we could’ve taken if it wasn’t already packed, and the Q hadn’t broken down.
It’s supposed to snow tonight but feels like summer. Being with you feels like summer. The sun of your smile warms my skin and I never want our time to end. You’ve got the right earbud in and I’ve got the left and we’re joint listening to that new Drake song. You insist Drake is white girl rap and I’m not arguing with you, but “it’s a bop” as I’d jokingly call it. Even though I’d been dying to get back into Manhattan or at least out of Brooklyn for the past hour or so, I’m sad we’re so close to Hell’s Kitchen because that means we’ll have to go soon.
My old friend’s ex is leaning nonchalantly against the pole in front of us. There’s a ton of other poles and overheads he could’ve grabbed onto, the subway is basically empty, but he purposely chose this one just to stare into my soul for the next thirty minutes — and I know it because he’s that exact guy. I’m sure if there wasn’t anything to steady himself in front of the two of us, he’d take his chances against falling and still be here. I’m trying to tell you about him, his backstory, why my friend broke up with him — that one time at that one cafe when he did that thing….but without real words that will reveal who I am talking about.
We end up laughing over the silly things I type into my phone notes because of course, I couldn’t wait the next twenty minutes to describe all this to you, and I thought you’d want an understanding of him.
7th ave is called out and as the train lurches, the ex-boyfriend stumbles a little, keeping his spidery legs still in balance. I purposely told you this was our stop, even though we could’ve gotten off closer to Penn but I wanted to walk with you more. I love you. I love your hair and smile and the stupid jokes you make — which hardly make sense most of the time but which instantly click in our developed vocabulary. I love the way you don’t complain about things that are arguably my fault.