A 4-5-year-old sat next to me on the 6 train today, talking loudly and waving her arms everywhere. Other people on the train were giving both her and her babysitter nasty looks, but the toddler didn’t seem to notice. Her babysitter, standing right in front of her, was leaning down, finger to her lips, and trying to shush the toddler as quietly as possible. The toddler, not complying with the non-spoken rule of not speaking on the train, started talking even louder. The babysitter sighed at her, annoyed at the scene she was making. The toddler, still babbling about the ugly orange seats of the train, finally noticed the puddle of water on the seat next to hers. She started shrieking even louder, causing several people nearby to cover their ears. I wish I could be like that toddler, my only worries being a dirty puddle of water on the seat next to me. I saw how she took pleasure in the small things in life like hair clips, backpack accessories, and the trains passing next to us while everyone else only seemed irritated by her blaring voice. Nobody witnessed how she was constantly smiling, constantly curious, and constantly talking. Well, they definitely noticed the last one. The babysitter winced every time the young girl spoke. The toddler wants to turn around and look out the window. I scooch over in my seat, giving her more room. The babysitter interprets this as if I’m trying to get away from the girl. I don’t mind her. She is a welcome respite of joy and energy from the otherwise melancholy atmosphere of the train. I wish I could be more like her.

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Ever since 9th grade, there is always this one older man on the train with me. He wears a plain grey crewneck with blue jeans and white Reebok sneakers. He always sits in the last car, next to the railing, on the bench straight ahead when I get on the train. He never has earbuds or his phone out. He is always carrying a royal blue bag that looks like a cooler. He is on the train before me and gets off after. I sometimes find my train ride boring without playing music or having my phone. I don’t know how he sits in silence every day and finds a way to entertain himself. I sit next to him that day. If I were thinking in silence for hours on end, I would be so consumed in my stress that I would be white-knuckling my hands. I look at him. He isn’t gripping his hands nor does he look stressed at all. In fact, he seems very peaceful. He isn’t sleeping, and he isn’t staring at a specific person or spot. I enjoy his serene presence. He almost calms me, the complete opposite of him in most ways, down. Man when I am a woman, older when I’m younger, and calm when I am always a whirlwind of stress. However, we are both on the same train, car, and bench. We at least have that in common as well as our daily commute into the city. One day, I stand up at my usual stop, Broadway-Lafayette, to get on the 6 train. He stands up right after me. Strange. He never gets off before me. I feel as though we have a strange kinship, seeing each other every day on the train for three years. As we are nearing the door, I let him off first. I expect a smile or even a nod of acknowledgment, but he doesn’t notice my sacrifice. I miss the 6 train, and I’m late for school. 

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I’m sure she goes to Chapin, or at least I think she does. She always has on a green checkered skirt and either a polo shirt or sweater. Contrary to my daily “uniform” of sweatpants and a sweatshirt, she wears a pair of black knee-high boots and black tights. Her hair is pulled back, and she sometimes wears some mascara and even some red lipstick. All in all, she looks put together and accomplished. Her black boots intrigue me. I used to own tall black boots like those in fourth grade. They made me feel confident, older, and more sophisticated. As I entered middle school with my trusty black boots, they quickly fell out of favor in my mind. Instead of knee-high black boots, it was white air force ones and Jordans that were associated with confidence, being “ready for school,” and fitting in with the 7-8th graders. Seeing these black boots repeatedly on someone who looks so put together makes me regret when my 6th-grade self threw mine away. Even though they wouldn’t (or maybe they would) fit me now, they would’ve made me feel put together, like this girl from Chapin. I want to talk to her, maybe ask her where she bought those boots or how she likes her school. I feel like we could be friends: we both live in Park Slope, we both go to all-girls schools, and we both have a niche interest in knee-high black boots. I never ask her this or even say a word to her. I could, though. I could be more brave. I could wear those knee-high black boots. I could talk to her about our shared experiences. But I don’t, and so we sit in silence during our train ride.