Nachtmusik
When you’re so attuned to the motif of the subway pulling into the station, hearing it sixteen, seventeen times a day, eyes leadlidded and the pressure of bag strap against wrist leaving faint purple marks on your skin that you can trace later during a seminar, or late and sundowned jiggling a foot as if you could increase the speed through sheer force of impatience, when you are so accustomed that when you are out on the balcony wrapped in faux-leopard against autumn night and cigarette neon in your fingers you hear the above-ground train, pulling into the station, above traffic and midnight shouts, from eight blocks away. You clearly detect that wheezed interval that’s not quite a second, and you close your eyes and the cool metal of the fire escape is indistinguishable from the bars delineating the bench seats, the flash of the ATM sign becomes the ostinato of evenly spaced tunnel lamps, and even though you’re sitting still you’re moving, restless beneath the city, above the city, after all, nobody is ever really still, here.
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