On the way back, a train comes going the opposite direction. Musette pulls me into it, saying that it connects to the A.

The route doesn’t make any sense to me, but I keep my mouth shut. There is something less magical about this route. It’s the one Musette used to use to get to and from work every day. She’s in control of reality at this point. The directions are in her mind. She knows the route by heart. 7 to the A to the G. She doesn’t like the number 7. That’s why she wants to make the transfer to the A rather than riding the 7 all the way home.

It makes sense now, looking back at it, but I was pretty upset at the time. It was a packed train. We had to stand the whole ride. There were screaming children. The driver didn’t know how to drive. He kept doing quick starts and stops. Breaking my back.

I’d been having a good time up until this ride. This trip was a farewell to Manhattan. I doubt we’ll be going back. Train rides are expensive. Three dollars one way per person. That adds up. A trip like this, twelve dollars. We don’t have that kind of cash. We never have. This city bleeds you dry. But we’re on especially low power mode now that our jobs are behind us. We’re letting the food run out. Only the bare necessities. I’m watching how many scoops of coffee I pour. Most of this stuff isn’t coming with us. We’ve begun breaking down furniture. One piece at a time. It makes the task less formidable that way. The liquor cabinet was the first to go. It’s been empty for a while. The bookshelf is next. The books are already packed up. All our furniture is cheap Ikea stuff. Musette got most of it for me as a Christmas gift, but she wants better furniture. The saddest thing is the mattress. It’s not coming with us. It cost us a lot of money. It’s a queen size with memory foam. A lot of springs. Mattresses are supposed to be ten year purchases. But not for us and our caravanning lifestyle.

Actually, the couch is worse. But we’re pretty much already separated from that. It’s at my brother in law’s apartment. It looks like he’ll be keeping it for even longer. It doesn’t seem to be a hot sell here in Brooklyn. It was too big for our place. We didn’t know. We’d driven it all the way here from Portland. Haven’t sat on it once since we got here. It was a marriage gift to ourselves. This city though… it takes and it takes and it takes. And what did we get for all of its taking? A few stars and a library card? An experience to write home about.

Was it worth it?


At least the story anyways.


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