Winter in Queens

Winter in Queens. I stand in the underground station, waiting for the F train. The world outside is bright and clear and the people of Queens stand apart, each made slightly larger by several layers of clothing. I used to stand at the edge of the tracks but there have been a number of train-related deaths recently, so I'm cautious. Last week a hispanic woman pushed an Indian man in front of a train. She thought he was a terrorist. I keep my eyes open for unstable women behind me. My mother would be glad to know that I don't stand close to the edge anymore. I should probably call her and tell her about the train-related deaths.

I'm listening to music, my headphones are banded over my winter hat, the wool scrapes against the ear pieces. In front and beneath me scraps of plastic and discarded food loiter next to iron stanchions. From the stair case a fetid wind blows and I breathe through my mouth. The garbage on the tracks begins to slowly move, pushed along by the wind and for a moment imitating the movement of sentient particles anticipating the imminent train. I shove my hands deeper into my pockets, I strain the seams. A blonde presence at my right elbow.

Turning, I look at her face and she is already looking at me and smiling. She smiles wide and her face looked tired and her smile is shaped in such a way that I am convinced it is genuine in this moment but is forced in most other moments. A smile that has been used in jest so many times in the past. That's okay, I have one of my own. I smile my sideways smile. The one where I show only a small sliver of my top teeth. I know all of this about myself. Hey, how are you? My headphones are still on.

We are sitting on the F train together and we are talking about work. She sits with her boots pointed slightly toward each other and her arms crossed and her upper body twisted slightly to face me. Everything we say is sarcastic, and I try to make her laugh. She has a habit of not looking me in the eyes, but looking slightly above. I wonder if I have something on my forehead.

We both stay on the train longer than we need to. I am late to my class in the Bronx. I think she is late to wherever she is going, but I am not sure. The air smells better in the Bronx. Dominican boys walk with Dominican girls, always in pairs. On my way to class, I pass the empanada trailer. This has been an immovable landmark since I moved to New York six months ago. Inside, swarthy faced women with kind eyes cook with their backs to the window. Red tubes of ketchup and hot sauce stand as frozen sentries on either side of the metal window. I shove my hands deeper into my pockets.

Here's a photograph I recently took of a cathedral: