i was standing at the intersection of broadway and church and the sun was pale and the cars kept turning the corner even though the light was burning red. i stood in front of a newstand being watched by photoshopped celebrities posing on magazines hung by a clothespin. it began to rain.
i wanted to buy a new shirt, one with a quiet modern pattern and no obvious logos and buttons and a collar because its time to finally grow up, so i was headed to a department store that was new yorks best kept secret, even though everyone knew about it.
i felt like a giant lumbering through the doors. my shoulders smothering the shopping experience for others. i tried to avoid touching people as i walked through the crowd. letting the forces of gravity create an orbit around me, allowing my mass to curve space and time. all our magnetic waves attracting and repelling as see fit.
there are voices bouncing off voices and echoing from the walls, the stuttering tone of security tags being scanned. people with headsets squeezing by in stealth precision, saying excuse me only as an automatic response, barely registering their own vocal vibrations. the alarm goes off by the door but not a notion is made by anyone. european tourist calculate the price of jeans in polysyllabic gibberish. and old pan asian couple consider a leather belt.
i get to the shirt section but cant take it anymore. it is noon on saturday and ive finished a midterm. it is cold and my tobacco is low. i have to write another paper but i miss her and cant think so i decided to buy a shirt instead. my phone hasnt vibrated in hours and i have to be in class soon. the train is under construction and running local so everything is slower than usual. there is nothing in my size. im on the brink of emotional collapse. i have half an hour to feel new and feel smart and write a paper and be on time and make the right decision but i cant find my fucking size. there is a tie hanging from a rack of hooded sweatshirts. i take a breath.
there will be no turmoil. there will be no disruption. there will be no spark inside; no supernova of pain and misery.
in my hand is a nice plaid shirt. a clever pattern of earthtones. a subtle statement of colors. the perfect fit.
i will look good in this.