We come off the N train laughing… about what, I don’t remember now.
My hand, always cold, is tucked into Francisco’s, always warm, parting only as we exit through different turnstiles.
There’s a couple with a stroller in the corner of the mezzanine, standing underneath the pipes where the pigeons roost and shit. They’re arguing, and we only catch a fragment, but it’s more than enough. The baby is beneath the stroller’s vinyl cover and I can see that his tiny face is rosy with rash, mad little bubbles dotting his cheeks, his forehead, his eyelids.
It’s a moment, one of thousands in a single day, and billions in our lives.
But it stays with us the rest of the day.