Here, you will find essays, musings, and other things that I hope you enjoy.
A girl across from me on the subway digs her purple stained nails into the peel of an orange. Her fingers bend and weave into the porous shield, and I can tell she’s on a specific mission: to unravel the fruit in one foul swoop––never once breaking the skin. My mom does the same thing, and when I watch her I am filled with a citrusy type of warmth. Most of the time, she doesn’t even have to look down, the movement comes naturally to her and once she’s done, she places the satisfying spiral of skin to the side as if it was some small feat. The girl wavers slightly as she reaches the middle of the orange, and the boy next to her, pressing lovingly into her side body smiles–as if to say you can do it. Her hands are young looking, a little pale, and decorated in silver rings. They look nothing like my moms, no crescent-shaped thumb bones that protrude slightly—the same ones my grandmother had. Her focus narrows and finally, she is successful. Her smile grows so large that I’m sure she forgets about the orange itself. She hoists the skin into the air and celebrates her triumph. I can smell the spicy citrus for a moment, but the scent leaves as fast as it arrives. She’s happy, and the boy next to her, who is presumably her boyfriend, appears equally as glad. It’s nearly 9 AM, and they have already done something special with their day—I feel myself grow happy for them, too. After the glee subsides, she digs into the orange again, this time breaking it into two. She passes the other half to the boy, who is dressed in different shades of green. The two of them bite into their halves, peeling away each piece with juice dripping down their chins. I am certain that this is the most intimate thing I’ve ever witnessed. And here it is; playing out in front of me as the 6 train slices through Grand Central Station. Once they’re done, they bear their pulpy teeth and grin. Their hands lock together in a careless, loved-up way. I can sense the stickiness as their fingers move in fragments over each other's palms. If I had to guess, I would say they seem around twenty, maybe New York Natives, and definitely in love. When I get up to leave them, they don’t seem to care. I think the world moves in meaningless ways when you’re like this, in love. It is the first time I understand the sweetness in going unnoticed. As they grapple with this big and beautiful feeling, I am just a quiet witness, a stripe in the afterglow. For some reason this comforts me, the fact that I can be swallowed by love.
Subway Citrus
Thursday night: the sweet spot of the week—that gushy yet deceptive collection of hours where the weekend can be welcomed with open arms or wished away with a few final moments of rest and relaxation. Tonight, the options to be weighed are heavy: Nick suggests we split a bottle of wine at Ruffian, Jack invites me as his plus one to “a friend’s” birthday party, and Sam mentions that he’s out with coworkers “somewhere on the Lower East Side.” As my phone buzzes in an unexpected frenzy, and I feel my evening on the brink of becoming something, Nick and Jack’s propositions begin to lose their luster. Sam, a non-committal anomaly of a person, struck gold—he offered me absolutely nothing.
These days, the early phases of quasi-relationships, affectionately known as situationships, feel a lot like trekking through mud. At first, you’re like me, salivating over someone’s apparent lack of interest—walking confidently into the pits of hell where a crew of good-looking demons wearing Adidas Sambas and thrifted jeans welcome you to ‘The Talking Stage.’ Next, a date is made, a kiss is shared, and you’re certain you’re onto something, months pass and you assume that you’re almost there, then boom, what was once a whirlwind of cocktails and sleepovers flatlines—joining Manhattan’s other failed situationships at some “super low-key dive bar that got too hyped up on TikTok.”
Somehow, the thrill of almost, but not quite suffices—but why? Why do we continue to condition ourselves into preferring the gritty space in between lovers and friends? Fear, sure, an easy suspect; but the true culprit? Pride. Today, everything and anything is placed in aestheticized buckets, sensitivity is marketed as something that ends with “core” and daily human functions are better explained as “icks.” We are constantly toeing the line of what’s cool and what’s not—rejecting the “simps,” vowing never to be a “pick me girl,” and punishing our friends who suffer from “boyfriend disease.” On the dreaded social media application, TikTok, 1.5 billion people share viral videos titled “texts from my situationship.” Creators mistake something that lives below the bare minimum for true romance and viewers perceive unserious emissions of desire as evidence that nameless strangers certainly “belong together.” Honestly, I’m even convinced.
My stint with Sam ended quickly on a Sunday evening. I felt like I had been sitting in lukewarm water for months, growing increasingly disinterested and uncomfortably pruney. He was inconsistent, I would have had better luck finding him smoking a cigarette outside of a dingy Lower East Side club than in my own apartment. After some consultation, I had landed on a text that was simple and concise: “I've really enjoyed hanging out with you but I don't think this is the best use of my time.” I was careful to avoid any apparent expression of human emotion—we weren’t dating, afterall. He responded a few calculated minutes later, tacking on unnecessary letters to his greeting to signal that, he too, was unphased and apologizing for his “super hectic” schedule. When he ended his message with “thank you for understanding,” I laughed—I mean, I was just so tired.
After a much needed break from the Sam, Jack, and Nicks of the world (which lasted all of two sweet weeks) I’ve come to this conclusion: Maybe we’ve scared ourselves into thinking that affection is some limited resource on the brink of going extinct. So much so, that when the words “I care about you” are locked and loaded on our tongues we freeze, we remember that as soon as the syllables leave our lips an absence will be created, and depletion of something finite will occur. But this is where we’re wrong. If there is one boundless thing in our lives, it is the love (yes, love) that we give. I promise you, although I don’t have much credibility, that big and messy, small but mighty, and absolutely nonsensical bouts of love will pour out of you if you let them. Nothing will run out, and nothing needs to be saved.
On ‘Situationships’
On a quiet Saturday morning, Tompkins Square Park’s playground is a home to many things: well-dressed toddlers with equally trend-conscious parents, reformed skater boys reading books on neoliberalism, and still-drunk twenty-somethings eager to connect with their seemingly fleeting youth. It is the most serene part of the park in my opinion, tucked away from the fast walkers and thick currents of weekend gossip, perfectly hidden from acquaintances eager to chat over bagels.
Today, I watch from the swingset as children climb up the metal poles of the monkey bars and launch themselves down a rusted blue slide. I have to bring my knees to my stomach in order to get off the ground, or else my adult feet might drag against the cement—detering me from gaining height.
When you’re twenty-two the joyous song of swingset links clanking against metal notches begins to change its pitch. The tune, which was once blissful and light, has transformed into a building siren—a demanding reminder to keep your feet firmly on the ground.
When I was young, I never once confronted the possibility of things going wrong. A broken chain, a scraped knee, a bruised cheek––these things were merely blips on my odyssey towards fun––but nowadays, they contribute to the achy promise that fear will undeniably rush in. I supposed that this is what the swingset song tells me; for the first time in my life, I am afraid.
Discovering fear like this, on a sunny winter day in Lower Manhattan, is like spotting a past boyfriend through the mirage of passing cars. In an instant everything tastes bitter, what was once fleshy and sweet turns to a grimy pith. It is a feeling that metastasizes if given the opportunity to linger, but I’ve started to recognize its true form. Fear is simply the state of being deeply misinformed regarding your own humanity. It is a strange tincture of pride and protection, where you believe you understand the nature of things—while in reality, you don’t.
I keep retreating into a strange sense of certainty, that life will inevitably be painful, but to indulge in this conviction is just an act of my own absurdity. Suffering exists in the same home as joy—so aren’t we foolish to anticipate who will open the door when we ring the bell? Maybe, adulthood is simply the ritual resisting the urge to know in a world when nothing can be known at all. I think that is contentment.