Today, I got on the subway carrying my red Knopf tote bag. A young woman who looked like Jean Seberg got on carrying a New Yorker tote. She was looking at her phone; I was looking at mine. I wanted her to notice me. I wanted to be her. I wondered if she worked in a cubicle at the New Yorker, reading short stories until she died of boredom. Or maybe she waded through millions of poems and went home at night and played flute. Of course, she smokes either Gauloise or American Spirits. She looked sad. Her girlfriend keeps picking fights for no reason and the paint on the radiator is curling like bark.
What short story did you walk into today?
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