We pile into a train like a swarm of bees. Our destination: home.
We disperse as if we’re liquid pouring out onto the street from a single coffee cup.
And to think just hours earlier, we were all in our various offices, in our respected positions, slaving away as if it’s the only thing that matters.
My boyfriend texted hours ago, and still, I haven’t even had a moment to breathe, let alone reply.
I sit and wait anxiously for the conductor to announce “Bloomfield, this is the Bloomfield stop.” Thirty minutes (of torture because I forgot to bring a book or an Us Weekly to read), I’m moments away from home.
I get up and stand patiently behind a man in a black suit, red tie, and leather shoulder “man bag” (a masculine tote, if you will). I follow closely behind him, my face tight (from I don’t know what). I must’ve been mentally drained from having to write an article, sit in meetings and be creative (yes, that can be tiring at times).
I walk swiftly, to be interrupted by a small child. The little boy, probably 4 or 5 years old, ran towards me … or so I thought.
I then hear, “Sweetheart, slow down!” from the woman (probably his mom trailing behind). He runs to the man in front of me. He yells, “Daddy!” He then climbs up into the man’s arms as if scaling a rock climbing wall. He gives his working dad a big hug. My face loosened up and before I knew it I was smiling.
While I find joy in wearing my orange BCBG power pumps — and waking up to my dream job every morning — I look forward to the day I can retire them for a comfy pair of Lacoste slip-ons (or whatever young moms wear these days — Keds?).
I then hurriedly pry open my Marc Jacobs handbag, rummage for my cell phone as if someone was actively trying to take it away from me to text back my boyfriend.