#65

Of all the things New York could have sent her that night, it chose a swarm of saccharine smelling Italian teenagers. She was sure it was no coincidence: The way they had no reserves about crowding their bursting golden bodies all over the subway seats, the way the boys gesticulated with one hand while holding the pole with the other, their silver crucifixes rippling with each jarring stop and go, the way the girls with ironed hair draped over their spaghetti strapped shoulders (and here she thought of real spaghetti, and that of course made her heart ache) purred in low sonorous tones while clicking their fake nails on their phone screens, the way they were all beautiful and boiling and unconcerned— no coincidence at all. It was an obvious collaboration. An alliance between joy and pain, sent from New York to her in a Friday night subway car, reminding her of their inevitable coexistence.