Earlier this year I saw

Earlier this year I saw a documentary on the New York subway system. It was fascinating. But it was one of the most mundane moments of the show that put a lump in my throat.

I think I've written about this before.

The young woman--a writer--who came to New York to get herself out there, to BE a writer. Nothing had worked out. She couldn't pay her rent. She was desperate. So she sold Xerox's of her short stories in the subway, a sign beside her to explain. Explain that she was a struggling writer and she needed help. I wanted to buy this woman's stories. Pay double the price. (A dollar each.) Help her. She was so honestly desperate that that must've bled over to the stories. She was probably a damn good writer. Problem is... you can't sell anything in the subway system. The police had to remove her. She crossed the price out and asked for donations, but it was too late.

Elise is leaving Connecticut tomorrow. So you know... she was here from the 2nd to the 8th and then the 13th until tomorrow the 30th.

So you know... I'm already scrambling for a plane ticket down to Florida. It's just that--open ended, up in the air, I'll see you soon goodbyes are terrible. A flight confirmation in my pocket would give us a number. I'll see you in this many days. If there were enough money on my credit card!

Last week we walked through Central Park, past all the portrait artists and performance artists and palm readers and all of that. I said, "Anybody can make money in New York."

Then I thought about that woman in the subway.

Then I thought about taking the train into the city, a ream of my Ribcage stories in a backpack. A packed lunch. A hopeless romantic sign. "STRUGGLING WRITER - DONATIONS FOR STORIES - PLEASE HELP ME GET TO MY GIRLFRIEND."

The police can't kick me out of Central Park can they? Besides... what have I got to lose?

Yes Natasha, there is still love.