On Sunday, I walked to my best friend’s house, and then I ran to get there faster. I had something to say, something beautiful, a feeling and a thought that had bubbled inside me as naturally as the train carried me on its tracks, just a few minutes earlier. “I love New York.”
It feels good to be in love with home. Healthy, heartwarming love.
Monday, an old crush asked me out. I said OK, gave him my card and walked back into the office. It’s been since January; I almost made it to a year. “That’s a good streak to break!” said Maddy at my news. “He’s cute, and getting a drink with someone never hurt anybody.”
So you think, I thought, as I nodded in agreement.
Today, I left work late, earlier than yesterday. “You especially deserve it,” bossman said. “Go rest. See you tomorrow.” Tomorrow, for more overtime.
I didn’t go home after I walked out of the building. I turned the corner instead, walked to the bookstore, where I descended the twisting stairs, navigated around rows of shelves and reached for the familiar book. I deposited myself on a half-hidden chair and continued where I had left off at lunch the day before.
I read about survivors. Strong, brilliant girls. Girls who sang silently, counted numbers, painted mental pictures, identified themselves as queens and fairies and angels like the ones staring down at them from the yellow bedroom wallpaper. Girls who checked out momentarily to ensure they’d still be there tomorrow.
It’s amazing, the intuitive resilience of the human spirit. Especially the feminine kind.