NY6 - Late Night

Last night, a girl was poring over the Nicomachean Ethics on the C train at 3 am, armed with the best kind of highlighter, seated opposite a homeless man whose socks were worn down to bright white spider webs and whose fingers had hardened over with a new, sad sort of skin. The optimism I've been nursing withered some, and my propensity for value judgments re-ripened in a quick second. I pulled a clementine suddenly from my pocket and we all partook in happy little wedges; citrus always cuts through sadness. Blossoms have begun to blossom and the winter puppies are growing up and everybody is having a bit of a flirt. When I leave the house wearing my "Take Off Your Pants!" button, people I pass on the street appear to be considering it. But I've failed to procure a pretzel and my hands mysteriously smell of henna and first avenue is full of November Delhi perfume. As always, I will settle, with infinite substitute joy. Which, as it turns out, is still real joy.