AwkwardRules

The alarm at 7:20. Hit snooze. Fuck that damn cell phone that I use as an alarm. The alarm at 8:30. Turn of the phone. I wake up facing the ceiling look down at my feet and see the 9:20 blinking at me from the cable box like a green little taunting bastard. I bend up and arch my back and push myself toward the bathroom. No time for a shower because I’m late for 10:00 am. I shove in my contacts and try to use my hands to push my hair into a more presentable shape. When was the last time I used a comb? I don’t know. I look at Cien años de soledad on my desk and for some reason throw it in my backpack. Gotta relearn Spanish, and I might as well read the supposedly best novel ever written while I learn I guess. I get on the laptop and check the directions to this place in Brooklyn and then a few minutes later I’m power walking like an old woman down broadway to the 1 because I don’t want to feel like an idiot and run. Then I decide whatever and I break into a run trying to weave through people to get to the subway, past the nice Mexican guy on the corner who sells me bananas at 5 for a dollar and strawberries for 2 dollars a pack. I get to the subway and hear the train and barrel down the stairs and see that today’s my lucky day and I just barely make it on the 2 express. I’ve got 25 minutes to get deep into Brooklyn and there’s pretty much no way I can make it by 10. But I stare at the flashing led that tells me the time->next stop->time->next stop and try to figure out how many minutes per stop I can afford if I’m to make it on time. 1.5 minutes? Too bad I suck at mental math.

I pop out of the earth near prospect park and I reorient myself to this bright surface world for a few seconds. I feel the coolness on my back and I know that my shirt is slightly wet with my sweat under the new york summer sun. Then I’m walking as fast as I can on my long legs because I’m late, late, always late, to see this apartment in Brooklyn. There was a time when I was really young when I could be punctual but it eroded quickly and got destroyed when I realized I could be late to or skip class in college without too many worries. Prospect Heights is the neighborhood and I’m looking for 555 prospect place, the same number as my office and that I find odd. I make it to the place by 10:15 somehow and walk in and two girls and a guy stare at me and I look at the broker. There are bars on the windows, I hate that. The place is actually decent unlike most of the shit holes I’ve been seeing. I notice that one girl seems interested and I’m instantly wary. Getting an apartment is a competitive business and I’m fighting the urge to be competitive. I look around and there’s no need to be for this place, the place faces north so it’s dark and there’s construction next door.

I look back at the girl and she’s handing the broker an application. She looks interesting, but I can’t figure out why. After few moments there’s only 3 of us left and we walk out of the building. The guy goes of to the shuttle and me and the inexplicably interesting girl head to the 2 train. She moves differently than I’m used to and she has an accent, but I can’t place it right away. Her eyes are expressive and I’m enthralled and not even paying attention to where we’re going. I could care less. She’s a freelance journalist from Barcelona working for a Spanish newspaper in the city and I’m captivated. She notices the book I’m holding (I love you Gabriel Garcia Marquez, and I’ve only skimmed a few of your short stories so far!) and I tell her I’m reading it because a friend recommended it. She sees the bookmark and says she’s impressed I’ve read so much of it, and then I tell her the bookmark wouldn’t stay put on the first page which I’m still reading (which is the truth!) because my Spanish skills are on par those of a Spanish goat with little more than average goat intelligence. She laughs and her eyes light up and she’s beautiful.

We somehow reach the subway with neither of us really paying attention to how we’re getting there. We’re in deep conversation and I feel like we’re in a bubble surrounded by busy bees buzzing about in a high speed blur. Then she gets up suddenly and bubble is broken and I panic for a second and I’m about to call out to her, but she’s just looking at the subway map. False alarm. She comes back and the bubble wraps us up and I get that high I experience when I feel there’s nothing else I’d rather be doing at this moment. We talk and smile and I’m about to ask her if she wants to hang out in the park some time. Then a harsh voice breaks our bubble again, “..transfers available to the 4,5,6�

“Oh, gotta get off! Hopefully we’ll see each other again at the next apartment!� she says with what appears to be a slightly disappointed smile and then she steps off the train. It takes me a few seconds to register that 1. I should have asked her to the park 3 minutes ago 2. she stepped off the train 3. I don’t know her name and 4. the train is about to leave. I leap out of my seat and I’m almost there. The door closes. My hand hits the glass and I look through with my mouth open and I try to stifle my cry of “WAIT!� but it echoes on the metal walls. The train starts moving and then I see her turn around. Our eyes meet for a second, and then she’s gone behind the dirty concrete of the subway tunnel.

I look back into the train and the passengers are looking at me with their sullen faces as if I’d just disappointed them. I feel that distant yet familiar wave of regret and I decide to fight it. No regrets. I will find you Hermosa.

-Vikas

Currently Reading Cien Anos De Soledad By G. Garcia Marquez see related