Let your mind go
Yesterday something in the universe felt chimerical, a subtle undercurrent of sequined devilry, a little happenstance mixed with positivity. Despite my generally gloomy attitude, even I could not ignore it.
It’s been a long time since I felt my heart pitter patter, but yesterday it happened, a shocking moment that caught me off guard, a thump in my chest, a butterfly in my stomach, an altogether hackneyed physical experience at the sight of an acquaintance crossing the street. I sat in my car, mouth slightly askew, watching him until he noticed me and waved. One electric shock later, I waved back, he smiled, and then I turned into the setting sun, the biggest cliché of them all.
My entire drive to the train station was comprised of stunned silence, even though a Lady Gaga song trundled out of my Camry’s speakers. Red brake lights winked and sighed at me until somehow, without fully comprehending, I was parked in space 226, had paid the fee, walked among the train passengers, dodged their luggage and sat alone on a train car, staring out a window.
It occurred to me that fifteen minutes must have passed, fifteen minutes in which I had spent that timely solely considering a brief encounter with a man I last knew as a boy, when we weren’t allowed to take public transit alone, when a driver’s license was a ritual years away, when vegetables were things you hid in your napkin. Fifteen minutes devoted to a fleeting hello and nonsensical, undefined glee.
Just as I was feeling foolish, my phone lit up like a firework for only my eyes. One new text: “Nice car.”
As my train snaked toward a darkened sky and towers of light, we text messaged back and forth for an hour. I was breaking my rule about using an iPhone on public transit.
But this was important. I don’t know why. It just was. My heart had pitter pattered and the city felt like it was opening its arms just for me, like every light was mine and mine alone to swallow up and glow.
It’s been a long time since I felt my heart pitter patter, but yesterday it happened, a shocking moment that caught me off guard, a thump in my chest, a butterfly in my stomach, an altogether hackneyed physical experience at the sight of an acquaintance crossing the street. I sat in my car, mouth slightly askew, watching him until he noticed me and waved. One electric shock later, I waved back, he smiled, and then I turned into the setting sun, the biggest cliché of them all.
My entire drive to the train station was comprised of stunned silence, even though a Lady Gaga song trundled out of my Camry’s speakers. Red brake lights winked and sighed at me until somehow, without fully comprehending, I was parked in space 226, had paid the fee, walked among the train passengers, dodged their luggage and sat alone on a train car, staring out a window.
It occurred to me that fifteen minutes must have passed, fifteen minutes in which I had spent that timely solely considering a brief encounter with a man I last knew as a boy, when we weren’t allowed to take public transit alone, when a driver’s license was a ritual years away, when vegetables were things you hid in your napkin. Fifteen minutes devoted to a fleeting hello and nonsensical, undefined glee.
Just as I was feeling foolish, my phone lit up like a firework for only my eyes. One new text: “Nice car.”
As my train snaked toward a darkened sky and towers of light, we text messaged back and forth for an hour. I was breaking my rule about using an iPhone on public transit.
But this was important. I don’t know why. It just was. My heart had pitter pattered and the city felt like it was opening its arms just for me, like every light was mine and mine alone to swallow up and glow.