"We took the 5 at Winthrop, walking up Nostrand past the 24/7 fried chicken place, several liquor stores, and a boutique coffee shop that stood out like a sore thumb. He departed at Atlantic Avenue with a fond kiss to her lips; I was never sure where she got off: it was farther up the island than me. I fancied that she did, indeed, work in the historic outpost on East 79th, within walking distance of the Met and the art her being so embodied.

          They were the Eleanor and Park couple, I remember thinking one of the first times I saw them. He, a tall, lanky artist; she, a short, compact bookworm. Their hands fit like puzzle pieces, fingers tightly twined. They leaned towards each other to talk and laugh, their figures creating a sculpture of Cupid. It was loud and intimate. Even when I couldn’t overhear their words through my earbuds, I felt their comfort with each other, love emanating from their very essence.

            I knew them, but I didn’t. We only took the same subway every day, at precisely the same time."