It’s Stuffy in Here

There is a Chinese woman writing in English on an unlined whitepaper across from me. Exactly what I’m doing. I read a story in the newspaper this week about a guy who saw a girl writing in a journal on the subway and he fell in love with her. He made a website dedicated to finding her (she disappeared before he could talk to her). I’m not in love with the Chinese woman across from me, but I am slightly intrigued what is she writing about. The rise of African-American erotic “literature” in New York City ghettos such as the title clutched by the woman next to her: The Streets Love No One by R.L.? Or is she a hyperactive occupational therapist like Jennifer and appalled at the maladjustment of the walker parked next to the stocking-foot homeless-style woman sprawled out under a shiny navy blue blanket next to me. Or maybe she is annoyed by the ubiquity of fake (or not fake) Louis Vuitton handbags – such as the one on the lap of the fore-mentioned erotica woman. Whatever. The Chinese woman got off the train.

I’m left with nothing to do but watch the Dominicans who took her place tongue each other. Nothing to do but ride this squealing steel millipede of desire home to my loving wife. Which she says she is even if it is sappy to say – she says. She’s a good one. This week she’s on pins and needles wondering when Marilyn will have her baby and whether boric acid will destroy the cockroach population in our apartment. Who knows? I’ll just sit here and sip artificially-flavored black-currant black tea out of my Franz Kafka mug and try to think about nothing for a little bit.

The heater came on in our apartment last week.