From<a href="http://jackie-o.blogspot.com/"> Normalcy is Coursing Through My Veins</a>
"Last night I was entering the downtown 1/9 platform in the station at 14th street, following the maze of tunnels underground from the L :
As I walk past the entrance, I notice a man and woman standing at the turnstile. The man is trying to run his Metrocard through the reader and it isn't working. He mutters, "Fuck you, please swipe again," and pushes it through a second time, more violently than the first. It still doesn't work. The woman, who is standing right behind him, no card in hand, says "See, that's god telling you not to leave." Her voice is thin, desperate. The man swipes his card one last time and it goes through. I think to myself, "Guess god changed his almighty mind." It takes me a minute to realize exactly how cruel that thought is.
So I walk down the stairs and the man is walking right behind me. He doesn't look back, but I do. She's still standing there, but has moved away from the turnstile now. She is behind the black bars right in front of the stairs, peering out from behind a mop of dyed-blonde hair. Her eyes are trained on his back.
Then we're both on the platform, the man and I. I stop right at the bottom of the steps, because I don't have the energy to keep moving. He keeps walking. Slow, measured steps. A guy sits playing guitar on the uptown side. His voice is echoing all around. He is singing "How Sweet It is (To be Loved by You)."
I am waiting at the edge, toes firmly planted on that yellow, textured surface that covers the foot or so before the drop-off. I glance back up the stairs, where the woman still waits. She has her hands wrapped around the bars on either side of her face, her head poking through the opening. I am sure she can't hear the guitar guy singing, and I think this is probably better. Then, she begins to sing her own song. Her voice is not entirely unpleasant, but it breaks now and again, notes slipping. I cannot make out all the words, but their sentiment is clear. Some slow R&B song from the top 40 radio. He's the only one, she doesn't know what she'll do without him. "How Sweet It Is" has ended, the guitar man has broken into "Let's Get it On." I am close enough to the steps that I hear both songs at equal volume. They sound terrible together.
The man keeps walking, as far down the platform as possible. I think for a moment that he might just walk off the edge, but he just leans back against a pole and shakes his head, more embarrassed than sad.
I keep turning my head back and forth. Others look straight ahead in that detached manner I have come to accept as the normal state of being. The woman never once seems as though she is about to buy a fare and come barrelling down the stairs toward the man. She just stands painfully still, her singing not so much competing with the other music as existing in another realm.
I stand there in the middle of the dischord, teetering on the verge, dizzied by all the sound. And then the train comes and drowns out all the music in a rush of noise, and I am so grateful I want to cry."
Why does love have to be so painful?
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