Dear Diary:
I saw a couple on the F train on a recent Sunday, on my way to Union Square from Brooklyn. They’ve drifted in and out of my thoughts all week. I look for them now on the subway platform.
He was focused on the sheet music he was holding, sitting forward with his elbows on his knees, making the occasional note here and there. She was lost in an old copy of “In Cold Blood,†covered in a torn jacket that matched the one on my bookshelf. Her legs were crossed. Her lips silently whispered descriptions of the barren plains of Kansas and that famous, unspeakable crime.
I watched her ankle lightly brush his knee with each rumble of the train. They could be alone together.
It seemed to be a New York kind of love.
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