On the Q train, just past 14th street, I leer at my public transit fellows. A few seats over and across the aisle sits a perfectly-imperfect family. The daughter, a beautiful and plain 30-something, regales her parents with a story and her dad makes a good-hearted quip about her "boyfriends." They love each other I think. My body reacts like the air has been replaced with spices. My eyes drip. My ears ring.

On the other side of me sits a kind black woman in a black velvet jacket above a soft black dress. Her golden jewelry and her short sharp hair would intimidate me if the curved lines on her face didn't tell another story. I try not to stare, but she's beautiful and sad and I've already fallen in love with her.

On the far side of the train a couple on the precipice of middle age – the older edge of young – laugh and wiggle their hands together in a child’s game. The man's beard ripples ocean waves as he laughs. It seems like he might turn silver the moment you look away.

At Dekalb, two men arrive and sit opposite the couples' now-vacant seats. They jostle momentarily before each settling into a relaxed stance – shoulder-to-shoulder, phones in hand. Boring, I think at first, until they slump into each other – a head on a shoulder, a shoulder into a chest. Sweet. Tired.

How do I look? Returning from a diner, armored in dress pants and a baggy sweater. My shoes, effervescent white sneakers this morning, have begun to adopt the punk-posturing of the New York City sidewalks. I habitually slide my left foot across the ground in front of me, pleasantly annoyed at the sensation of the gum on my sole catching momentarily on the train floor.

I hope I look ramshackle but cool. I hope I look carefree and mature. I hope I look knowing but youthful. The train is full of secret diaries. I hope I'm noted, cruelly or softly. I hope I'm not ignored.

Ah, there's my stop. My brain recoils and my body reacts. Good night to all my Q train comrades. Sleep tight.

Out in Queen Maud Land

Summers milder than Accra

Le Mans, sans Paris

Four women on the Q train, they sit across from me speaking Spanish. A family I think. A mother and three daughters or maybe cousins. One is a New Yorker. Maybe two. They look at their phones and wear the kinds of scarves that New Yorkers wear. They’re in the conversations seats that make them sit like an L. Two on the parallel orange seats and two on the perpendicular orange seats. The mother is on the end jutting into the center of the car. She and a daughter wear the kinds of scarves that New Yorkers don't wear.

We all get off together at the end of the line. It's past midnight and there’s line work. We run up the stairs together with the haste and soft panic from trying to find a secret train station. The mom wears green and blue knitted orthopedic shoes, the same kind my mom wears when she visits New York. My mom would never be caught dead awake at midnight. Goodnight mom. I love you. Come visit soon.