On the R train, pulling into Atlantic Avenue-Barclays Center. The N is across the platform, doors wide. I get up to stand near the door because although the N looks to be waiting, you never know. The woman already standing at the door taps on the window glass and says, “Wait!” as if scolding a potentially disobedient child.
She mutters, “N across the platform, but who knows if it’s going to wait? Are you going to wait? Why would it just sit there so long and not wait? I’m going to flip my shit if it doesn’t wait.”
I almost turn to her to say, reassuringly, “It’s going to wait!” but then decide I don’t want to face her wrath if I’m wrong. The doors of the R open and I let her out first, then march proudly behind her with the sense of authority that comes from being in the presence of someone who’s clearly in charge. If the N closes its doors now, I know she’ll find a way to make it right.
We get on the same car. I sit down and fiddle with my phone. She takes a selfie, looks at it, and says, “I know you!” Then she turns to the elderly woman sitting next to her. “Do you have grandchildren?” The older woman says, “No, I don’t.” “Oh,” says the first woman, “that’s so sad.”
