New York City is overrun by millions of people, all rushing to be somewhere. They hurry to work, hurry to their happy hour martinis, hurry to their dinner engagements, hurry to finish shopping before the shops close for the day, and try to fit work and appointments in between.
It's easy to get lost in the hurrying masses and feel anonymous, and it's always startling to run into someone I know.
Often I prefer to take cabs rather than the subway. In a city where it is hard to be alone, those few minutes in the backseat moving through traffic seem like a luxury. But when its hard to get a taxi, sometimes I give in to the subway, never dreaming I will run into anyone I am avoiding.
So I was on the 6 train going uptown one afternoon, appreciating the fact that I had scored a seat, and distracting myself from the uncomfortable over-crowdedness by listening to music.
At 33rd Street, even though it seemed as though not one more person could fit in the train, ten more crammed in. I glanced up to see how this was possible, and saw the 21-year-old whose heart I had bruised a few months ago.
We had ended badly. Devon was sweet, and attentive, and always around to hang out with me when he wasn’t playing bass guitar with his band. He needed more affection than I could give, probably because I was never in love with him.
He was a few years younger than me, after all, just finishing college and in a different emotional space. He still lived with his parents.
We only lasted a few weeks. I had tried to break up with him in a kind way, but it was awful. I was increasingly cold towards him, and I could tell by his eyes that it hurt him in the way only a 21-year-old can hurt.
And I felt guilty. I tried to call and apologize for not handling it better, but he refused to talk to me.
This made me feel even more remorseful. I’d only been his second girl, and I worried about the damage I’d surely done. Dating a younger guy made me have sophomoric emotional reactions to the break up.
Now he was holding the railing and looking at me straight on. He waved.
“How have you been?”
“Oh, good. How’s your music stuff going?”
“Really well,” he said. “I moved out of my parents and got a place downtown. I have a gig pretty much every night.”
I gave him the one sentence summary of the updates in my life, and then we were awkwardly silent. All the things unsaid.
“My friend Daniel said he saw you a while ago,” he said.
I had a vague recollection of some guy I couldn’t place talking to me at a Lower East Side bar after I’d had a few drinks.
“Oh, that’s who that guy was,” I said. “I kind of remember.”
Once, when I went out with Devon, I’d mixed a ridiculously large Mohito with a ridiculously large margarita, and he’d held my hair back while I threw up all the way back to my apartment. He probably thought I was a total alcoholic.
The train stopped at 51st Street.
“Well I’m transferring to the E,” Devon said. “It was good seeing you.”
“You too,” I said.
But I couldn’t leave it like that. If there was one thing I had learned from my guilt, it was not to avoid saying anything unpleasant, because the truth was ultimately less painful than the subtext.
Devon got off the train and I ran after him.
“Look, I need to say something. How we ended…I didn’t handle it well. I was never clear with my communication. I was a jerk.”
“That’s okay,” he sighed. “I don’t know what even happened.”
“I tried to apologize on your answering machine.”
“Yeah, I never called you back. But let’s hug it out,” he said, and wrapped his arms around me.
“Maybe I’ll call you sometime and we can catch up properly,” he said.
He smiled and walked away and as I ran up the stairs to catch a cab the rest of the way home, and I felt better.
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