The lower east side smelled like fish and garbage and the sweat of trying too hard. It was too much. Jacob and I made our goodbyes, left the bar and headed north up the Bowery towards safer havens. We passed our friends waiting in line at a bar, and headed east to Veselka. The boyish waiter sat us in the corner and we ordered Ukrainian meatballs and some sort of poppy-seed fruit and nut type pudding. On the other side of the room, a man stood up, declared he would kill Obama, and threw silverwear against the window. I told him to shut up. He told me to blow him. Someone screamed. Jacob and I giggled as the waitstaff removed him from the premise. The meatballs were covered in mushroom sauce and sat on a pile of egg noodles. The scoop of mashed potatoes tasted like my grandmother’s: dry and dense. Jacob sipped his tea and we discussed the way he compartimentalizes relationships, like a chest of drawers, and the way I do, like an overflowing hamper. When we left, the cold wind blew up all around my bare legs and the city shuddered. It was time to go home.
Subway MapSubway Philosophy is about New York, culture, sex, publishing, memories, alcohol, or a combination of the above. Originally taken from drunken musings on the subway, it has evolved into something extraordinarily similar to most young blogs: which is to say, redundant, romantic, and woefully introspective.
Current Subway ReadingWhite Teeth