Suits and slacks and blouses give way to families, nannies. Immigrants, just like we were thirty years ago. This is Carl’s route every day to his newly full-time job at Ditmas College. A pair of Bangladeshi women are hysterical over some picture on their phone, an Orthodox Jewish family loops around a bag of chips, an older woman, face pulled back by a too tight bun, completes a crossword puzzle. I follow the weave of female high schoolers in backpacks and neon-colored hot pants as they rotate around the center pole. Tan’ka, you know men don’t leave their wives. It’s uncomfortable, inconvenient, and we are creatures of convenience. He’s not cheating. The very idea is still ridiculous but I’m here to placate my mother and Alla. He’s been gone over two months now. Two incomprehensible months. The way he used to look at me. The train slides into its final station and, outside, I navigate the dangerous constellation of Flatbush Avenue and Nostrand, cars whipping by from all directions.
