2:37

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It is raining in Manhattan, tonight, and it couldn't be more beautiful. We're drunk on life and love as we dance through Times Square after midnight. The long blocks to Penn Station fly by under our light feet, and soon we stumble down the stairs of the seventh street entrance and race to see if we can make the 2:37. We skid to a slippery stop in front of the board, and notice that our homebound train has just arrived. It's prompt just for us, so we say.

That normally garish lighting of track eighteen seems ethereal, and the skittering of tiny rat-claws on cement might as well be applause; we are the king and queen of our city.

The car is empty and we are grateful, for we have the sixteen minutes between Penn and Woodside all to ourselves. We slide into the last row of seats, and just hold each other, lulled half-asleep by the clickety-clack of the wheels on the track.

Dark suburban streets blur past us as you fall asleep on my shoulder, and I can't imagine a better end to our night. I know that out there, other couples are in love, too, but I bet that none of them get to bury their nose in their partner's hair and smell the city and rain and youth.

Somewhere out there in the darkness, there are children crying and divorces in the making and loved ones dying. But it doesn't matter -- for a little while, at least -- because right now there is just you, me, and the 2:37.





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