On the Uptown C train: R179, FIND Route map with red, yellow, green LED lights.
October 25, 2026
It is Sunday morning. I’m running late, but I might still make it on time. The C train is skipping stops between 72nd and 116 St.
There are just a few people in the car. A woman and a man sit on the bench across from me. She is next to the seat-end rails, but she leans into him. He leans back. They are dressed in layers. She’s wearing a pair of loafers. They might be his, they’re too big, slipping off her heels when her feet tap.
He is quiet. She is loud. Both on their phones. His turned down. Hers turned up. It dings, ding, dings. She shouts, “I am out of diamonds.”He shakes his head. A few minutes later, “Look, how good I played that! Look what I got.” There’s a sound, a chiming cascade. He smiles.
“Do you smell smoke?”
He shakes his head, still looking at his phone. She gets up.
“No validation of what I smell or feel. Well, I need no validation, no confirmation, no registration, of how I feel.” The last three words spaced apart, a declaration. How. I. Feel.
He is still looking at his phone. Pacing now, she looks out the window as the train skips 72 St station. She looks up at the route map. Then stares out the window again. The train passes 81 St.
She walks to the window at the end of the car, pressing her face against it. I can see a woman in the other car glance up and the back down.
“Look at your computer! You got to stop. You got to. The red and the green. You got to stop at One Two Five. You got to stop. Look at it, man.” She hits the window once with open hands, “Ignore me one more time.”
She walks back over to the man, he looks up, moves over. She sits down next to him, settling back into the corner of the railing.
“Well, I guess it will stop because it has to.”
He nods.
She pulls her legs up, stretches them across his lap, her feet on his knees. He is still watching his phone as he adjusts her left shoe, pulling it up around her heel. She touches his shoulder once, and then looks back down at her phone.
The dings, ding, dings start again.
I look down.
I feel ashamed of myself. Like I’m stranger in their living room, I’ve taken a seat without asking. But I also feel a fraying joy. Here is love in the morning.
The train stops at 125 St. It has to. She helps him get up and they walk out the door.
I ride a little longer.