On the L

When I go to Brooklyn I arrive with an earache. The train dips under the East River and no matter how hard I swallow my ears refuse to pop. Ah, the L train, land of the sweet baby doll dresses paired with heavy workboots boots, nipples, faux-fur vests, exposed bras, indecent smells, blocks of tattoos color coding the children of white class, blue blood, high strung thrift store victims awash in this morning’s hangover. The girls on the L train look like they sleep in kohl-rimmed eyes, naturally made up and everywhere to go. I am the type of person that looks around any train I’m in on the off chance I recognize someone from a past life. I don’t see anyone. Just strangers. I wonder if the train stops and we’re all trapped forever under the skin of New York City who would fall in love? Who would choose to stay underground if we were freed, gently pawing each other, making little subway babies?

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