Personal Space
Posted on 24 June 2010
I walk around the city for the better part of a hot, humid day. The smell of urine and trash comes at me from every corner. I tolerate it, but the tiny breaths I take cause my panic to rise closer to the surface, until I duck into a store, into the air conditioning pouring out of open doorways.
I used to enjoy New York so much more, used to find the number of beautiful people overwhelming. I could imagine ducking into an alleyway for a passionate kiss from a stranger, could picture the young bodies naked, locked together with my own. I basked in the looks I got, rather than feeling threatened or exposed, rather than being sad and empty.
My home is messy and crazed, but it is home, and its routine is comforting, if for no other reason than that I know how I behave there. There is no edge of doom or fear of walking over the cliff, there.
I remember walking years ago, to clubs, to shows, dressed provocatively, wanting to be wanted, wanting danger and desire. Wanting some kind of love, but not knowing what it looked like, I accepted its inferior substitute.
Now, I can’t wait to leave the city. I walk quickly to my subway, to the bus that will take me back across the river. The bus is so cool, I shiver, and look for a seat alone so I can lean my head against the window while I read, safe in my cocoon. I’ve adapted so easily to the crowds, I’ve made almost no eye contact all day and worn a stone-faced expression.
But then the businessmen are on the bus, and I have a seat mate. He is tall and large, slightly soft. His presence reminds me of my husband, whom I suddenly miss even more.
We say nothing, but at some point he sleeps and his arm rests agains mine. I don’t move, instead allowing myself to pretend he is my protector, someone I trust. My skin is against the smooth cotton of his light blue, summer weight dress shirt. I feel his flesh beneath it, warm.
I read, he sleeps to his iPod tunes, head back against the seat, mouth open.
We get off at the same stop, and it’s a sad relief when he walks quickly away and I can breathe deeply, quelling the panic of being alone again.
7 responses to Personal Space
I have done something similar: pretend that the stranger next to me is not a stranger and feel the impersonal contact as something intimate and warm. And I am not even alone nor lonely. Just sometimes passing the time on public transportation.
Was it just last year (maybe it was the one before) where you wrote contentedly about knitting on the train? There’s something sad about your words here. Yet- something good, too. Something about feeling content with the ordinary comfort of home and husband, of who you are.
Yes- what is the city compared to that?
Nice story. Don’t you think we change our need for danger and excitement with age? That’s what I feel in this story.. it’s a smarter move but a little ‘duller’ in a way. As if we did a little whitewash over our emotions.
This is great writing; very warm and personable and hitting on things we have all felt at one time or another. I lived and worked in cities long ago, including NYC. Now I’m so far out in the country, tonight I had to keep stopping for a coyote (he kept running ahead of the car, in the same direction) and two deer. But I visit family and friends in NYC from time to time, and so many feelings come back. I’m off-track here. This is just great writing, and don’t ever stop. Your Aunt knew.
Thank you for the kind words, Dan. I appreciate the encouragement more than you know.
I’m just popping in to say:
Nice site!
and
Hobos?
– c.
I’m honored by your visit, and the compliment!
and
Yes! Duh.
-j.