See You in the Morning

11 // Intermezzo

An otherworldly, October fog descends over the Hudson River on Saturday morning, draping the city of Manhattan in a thick, white cloud.

Josie rises quietly, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. Across the room, Safiya's soft snores resound from beneath an impressive stratum of blankets. Josie swings her bare feet down onto the hardwood floor and reaches for her glasses, which sit atop a stack of old books by her bed.

She makes quick work of brushing her teeth and washing her face in the bathroom. Afterwards, she pulls a fresh tee from her dresser and slips into a pair of jeans and socks. She grabs a rusty red cardigan from her closet, inspecting it for holes before sliding it over her shoulders. For a final touch, she fluffs her bangs with a quick sweep of her hand before slipping out of the bedroom and shutting its door.

Josie shuffles into the kitchen and draws herself a cup of water from the sink. Her gaze travels to the oversized windows in the next room, where the mist outside obscures the world beyond her apartment. Its haunting effect reminds her that it's about time for her yearly reading of Wuthering Heights.

Maybe this year, she'll branch out and reread Mary Shelley's Frankenstein instead.

When she drains the water glass, she sets the cup in the sink and checks her watch – she needs to hurry. With a quick inhale, she grabs her canvas bag from its resting spot on the floor by the couch and heads out the door.

The fog permeates through the streets, casting the cityscape in a surreal palette of grays and whites. Thankfully, there are not many cars driving through the Lower East Side this early on the weekend. Josie adjusts the strap of her bag and begins to walk, the route familiar yet new in this decidedly bewitching haze.

Nine minutes later, she boards the D train. The compartment is almost empty, save for a few uniformed workers leaving night shifts somewhere in the city. Josie steps towards a row of unoccupied seats as the train car begins to move, the old gears whining with effort and neglect.

Not yet caffeinated or awake, Josie unsuccessfully stifles a yawn and resigns herself to the soothing motion of the metro moving over the tracks. As she closes her eyes, her thoughts wander to her mother.

She thinks about Evanna a lot these days.

Since their chat in the tea shop, Josie's made a concerted effort to visit Evanna whenever she can. With each visit, she gleans more dimensions about Evanna as a person, learning about her childhood, her adventures in the city, likes and dislikes, and even her greatest disappointments and joys.

Spending time with her mother was like stumbling across old diaries full of forgotten knowledge. After nearly a decade of waiting in mystery, all Josie wants to do is to read each volume of Evanna's life until her need for answers is fully satisfied.

But most of all, Josie just wants to be known.

She'd given Evanna a few clippings of her poems that were published last year in the Minetta. Evanna had gushed over them, reading and rereading them with unhidden pride. Her reaction had made Josie uncomfortable, not because it didn't stir up a sense of accomplishment but because she realized there existed a small part of her that craved for affirmation from a woman she barely knew.

It's strange how her heart still craves her mother's attention and love even after all these years.

The train jostles to a stop, opening its doors to another barren platform. After a minute, the doors slide shut as the train resumes its course. Josie leans her head against the window and sighs.

It had been unintentional, but Evanna's mild words of caution regarding her engagement have burrowed into a tiny corner of Josie's mind. Rationally, Josie knows that she has no need to give Evanna's opinions any clout, especially because Evanna forfeited her staying power the moment she chose to leave. But Josie cannot say for certain that Evanna isn't wrong, because the fact remains she and Marco are quite young and possibly reckless in their desire to marry sooner instead of later.