Back home in a home I never felt quite at home in, the old familiar habits come creeping back so quickly. The book I carry on the train but never read. It's in Spanish. Maybe some people won't suspect I speak English. Even better, I start taking cabs again. I still hate the fucking train. The charm of listening in on stranger's conversations wears off fast. Most of these conversations are so goddamn depressing.
The married couple here on vacation that stick out like sore thumbs (probably because he carries her purse and they both wear shorts in the fall). They are clearly fighting. I guestimate they've been married over 20 years. She warns her husband that he can get off at this stop without her. Of course, he doesn't. He never will. You know they will live together, loathing one another "till death do them part".
The polite guy in Dockers who asks me where I'm headed, and then if I would mind joining him for coffee sometime? His thick New York accent reminds me of the boys I went to high school with, so naturally I decline. I disgust myself.
The security guard who tells me he likes my earrings as I walk by. Thank you. I see them being sold on the street by a vendor about a block later, at least thirty blocks from where I bought them. Fuck, these earrings are everywhere. They went from charming to cheap in a day.
Later I take another cab to get away, to create distance in the city that's all about the "people" and "lively streets". I put on my horse-blinders and tune it all out to keep from going into overstimulous shock. I learned to do this well a very long time ago.
Once alone in my head... peace. Every now and then, I come up for a look. Sometimes, what I see is so beautiful. It feels good to be home.
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