I spent Friday night in a Thai place near Penn Station and Madison Square Garden. I guess the restaurant is right beneath a subway station. It smells nice and the food is great, but the floor vibrates whenever a train passes underneath. I waited for him while thinking that the restaurant wasn’t making a big deal out of Valentine’s Day. It was his birthday after all and I had my first interview for a job. You never know when pain actually comes to inhabit you. You sit in a Mexican restaurant in Queens, someone says something silly about your eating habits and the only thing you can feel is this deep pain. It all comes down to his father sometimes. It all comes down to my father sometimes as well. I’m sick of winter. I’m sick of this heavy brown fur coat I am never going to throw away. Stop thinking about clothes you’ve thrown or given away. Stop looking at pictures in which you were wearing clothes you don’t own anymore. Raluca. There’s this pain I felt today coming back home. I managed to block it on the subway ride. Nobody saw me crying. The moment I reached 86 street though – which is strangely my home now – I felt safe enough to cry. I was walking and crying and slowly comforting myself in a low, but loving voice. I don’t dream about Bucharest anymore. I eat chicken rice soup at the Chinese restaurant that has become our own. I did not feel like going to Fashion Week. So I didn’t.
pictures taken by Ion Sterpan on the Upper East Side