I spent an impulsive $50 on books at Shakespeare and Co., then sat at the 68th Street Station grasping after my thought-butterflies before they could get away. The train arrived and I chased one on board, batting the air after it. About three stops later, I looked down and realized I didn’t have my Shakespeare and Co. bag.
My $50. My three books I was really excited about reading. The tampons I’d bought at CVS.
I got off the train and transferred back uptown, unraveling but trying to keep my shit on lockdown. (“They’re probably gone; let’s all just breathe.” “Fucking shitballs, I’m pissed.”)
I raced-nonraced back to the platform, where I found my little bag slumped exactly where I’d left it. I picked it up and hugged it, when it dawned on me: my panic was cute but unnecessary. This bag was never in danger.
Nobody wants books.