Everything is better than the last bad thing that went wrong. But none of it is great. There is a real sense of loss but not familiar to, say, the kind of men I have dated who will all find their way into subpar good-byes.
Before, I had been quite desperate to leave Finchley, and it was arrogant. Of course I hadn't lived there for years, but still; where were the boys in loafers and jogging bottoms tight around their ankles; the, 'listen miss, she's butters'? On the corner of Tally Ho the brown pub carpet ran the length of it, where only the toilets had seen refurbishments; and Horace sold crayon drawings for two pence, god rest his soul; had 2-step ever left this place?
A woman on the subway (the 4, past Bleecker Street) asks for money. Her two children - a boy and a girl - are neither of them older than six. I often bring a jumper, even in this heat for the trains themselves are cold. The further into mid Manhattan you go, the cooler the air-conditioning. A man opens a packet of Starburst and sells each individual one to the passengers ; 30, maybe 40 cent a single sweet. He needs the money. He lifts two individual sweets from the loose packet and hands them to the kid. He eats them for free. I don't know where the boys who became men in loafers live anymore. It shouldn't matter. It gets warm again when we get off the train.