A guy in a wide brimmed hat stands up on the train, says, "Excuse me," to me before we reach the stop, and I tell him I'm getting out too, just so he'll relax a little. When we get West Fourth, however, I realize it's not my stop, and I pretend I'm getting out after him, only to get back on to continue my ride to work.
Walking down the tunnel, a man reading a paper steps in a pink and white splatter of vomit, but he doesn't notice and continues on his way, trailing wet footprints on the stones.
In Grand Central, a traditional Peruvian band plays "The Old Rugged Cross" on the pan flutes, and I emerge into the grey New York morning, giggling to myself.
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