Last week when I was in New York, I saw a man on the subway who was magically standing upright without holding onto anything. He had amazing stubble, was reading a library copy of a Zadie Smith book, and looked like he knew how to camp. I thought to myself, “That could be my soul mate.”
I glanced around and wondered, “Is anyone thinking that about me? Am I someone else’s subway soul mate?” I quickly finger brushed my hair and sat up straighter.
Then I realized that I was a woman on the subway with three huge bags, each one hitting at least two people every time the subway jerked. I was wearing sweaty work out clothes, wolfing down an egg sandwich in public, and looked like I was in the beginning phases of training my hair not to need shampoo. Probably not someone’s subway soul mate.