Still Angry, Downtown

The board says four minutes. I look at it the way I have been looking at everything since I left his apartment — like it might explain something, like if I stare long enough it will tell me what is wrong with me. The platform is empty. That is the first thing I checked.

One man at the far end, back turned, headphones. A pillar between us. The fluorescent lights do what they always do down here — flatten everything, make everyone look like they are already confessing. I am still furious.

I want to be clear about that. The fury is not gone. It is sitting in my chest exactly where it was when I slammed his door, when I walked the six blocks here in the cold without a scarf because I left too fast to think, when I stood at the top of the stairs and felt the heat of the platform rise up and thought about nothing except how angry I was and how right I was and how he does not deserve the version of me that I become when I am trying. And then I got to the bottom of the stairs and my body did this.

I have been standing here for two minutes already. The wool of the coat is heavy across my shoulders, holds its shape the way expensive things do, and from the outside — I know from the outside — I look like a woman waiting for a train. Hands in pockets. Still.

Jaw set. The coat does not move when I move. That is the thing about a coat like this. It keeps its posture even when you have lost yours.

My right hand is in my pocket. My left hand is gripping the strap of my bag, knuckles against the leather, which is cold from the walk and has not warmed yet. I am aware of both hands the way you become aware of your hands when you are trying to decide something you have already decided. The board says three minutes.

I am disgusted with myself. I want that on record. This is his fault and it is also not his fault and I am furious at him and furious at whatever part of me decided that fury is apparently — apparently — an on-ramp to this. I have never understood it.

I have never wanted to understand it. It happens and I wait for it to pass and usually it passes. It is not passing. The heat I walked into from the street is still moving through me, or I am making my own, I cannot tell anymore.

Somewhere below my ribs there is a pressure that has nothing to do with anger and everything to do with it. The back of my right knee, where the coat hem stops, feels the cold air off the tracks. The contrast is specific and unwelcome and I notice it anyway. My right hand moves.

Not far. Through the pocket lining, through the waistband — just inside, just enough. The fabric of my waistband is thin against the back of my wrist. My palm settles flat against my stomach, fingers pointing down, not moving yet.