I’m on the 5:40 am train to Grand Central.
I dose through most of the ride in.
The throngs spill out into Manhattan.
It’s 15° F, but feels like 0°.
Frigid wind gusts rush through the concrete canyons, whistling as they pass by.
Salt is gnawing on snow and ice.
Steam from underground tunnels billows out of steel grates and evaporates into air.
Now you see it, now you don’t.
The streets are beginning to stir.
Cabs. Delivery trucks. Construction workers.
I’m marching cross-town on 48th.
Headphones in. Playlist set to “My Top Rated.”
Ear lobes are tingling, frost-bite workin’.
No hat. Can’t mess what hair I have left.
The wind shocks the corneas, my eyes water.
I see him a block away. A mirage.
I wipe my left eye.
It’s the legs I notice first.
They are suspended.
Swinging wildly, jointless.
I’m closing in.
Forearm crutches. Not one. Both arms.
He leaning in.
Right. Left. Right. Left. Right. Left.
I’m 30 feet away.