New York is sometimes a place where you can sit in a train car, heart in a book, and let yourself cry for the people living in the pages. You can wipe those tears away with your index finger, turn the page, and then look up to see that you haven't made the spectacle of yourself you thought you had, because of the seven or eight people scattered about the car, not one was looking up. They had their faces in mirrors as they applied lipstick, or their phones, or like you- in a book. You exhale and feel an emotion that is equal parts relief and isolation.
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