One of the many things I’ve found unique to New York is the effect it has on the notion of private versus public spaces. In a city so vast and so fast, rarely do many of us have a moment to carve out a private place, and many simply forget that the option exists at all.
While crossing Broadway at 42nd Street today during my lunch run, I walked past a tall, thin blonde woman on the phone; she’d just found out that the person on the other line had been fooling around with someone during a two-week jaunt to Tokyo. With a cigarette in hand and a look of pure rage on her face, she stormed onto the sidewalk in black pumps, passing me.
I’d not only just overheard her; I’d witnessed in real time a moment to which I should not have been privy—one that’ll permanently augment her life, yet has no bearing on mine. That wasn’t my news to share, yet, the nature of this place breeds these scenarios; while one learns to filter out most of the background noise, she sometimes can’t—or maybe doesn’t want to—ignore the rare blips that seep through the sieve.
M
