Someone asks me what I’m doing here and now I’m in the field next to my suite in college and the hundreds upon hundreds of people are there standing and chatting and hanging out and I don’t like it. It’s too big and too many people so I walk. The day is the kind of day I take for granted and normal people stop every five feet to wonder at the beauty of my school. If the peacocks were still here they’d only be an aside. The time passes quickly as I walk and by the time I get to the benches by the pond it’s full on sunset already and even I get stopped. It forces me to reverse direction for about 200 feet and I find myself outside of Monty, the music hall. Perhaps it’s time to play some music, I think, before heading straight to the theatre. I’ve been in the theatre a few times to see plays and it’s one of those typical black box type deals. I walk up the stairs to the balcony, my favorite place, and there’s this girl, sitting in my favorite chair. I know her, vaguely, in the back of. The riders are not exclusively New Yorkers. I’m a graduate student at the large, famous, Ivy League university on the upper west side of Manhattan. I try to follow a very regular schedule, so I arrive at the station at 8:58 or 8:59 each morning, trying for the #1 train that leaves 242 at 9:04 AM. If nothing goes wrong, this puts me at 116th Street at about 9:38 and I can easily get to work by 10:00. This is very predictable; I have a considerable streak of OCD in me. I always sit in the fourth car of the ten-car train. Getting on an empty train at the end of the line, I can usually sit in “my” seat, which is one of two seats at the very end of the car beyond the last door, facing two others across the aisle. I am comfortable in this routine. Almost immediately after I established this routine, I noticed that another rider shared it. An attractive woman, perhaps a few years older than I, sat down directly across from me for four days in a row, at 9:01 or 9:02 each day. On the third.
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