The Jay Train

chapter one

🖤

      My shoe hits the dirty concrete on the final step down the subway stairs, and I walk down the platform. I glance up at the train arrival schedule and sigh at the next train being nine minutes away.

I swear when it doesn't matter what my arrival time is, the train pulls right up. But when I actually have to be somewhere, the train is moving at molasses fucking speed.

I'm already running late, and they're probably waiting on me. It's technically not my fault, Pedro forgot to pick up the cannabis ice cream that Alex so desperately needed to go with his birthday cake. He called me right after I got off work at ten, begging me to pick it up on my way, but the weed shop it's sold at is out of my way. I ran home to change, took a quick shower, and got to the shop in thirty minutes.

I glance down at my lock screen and read 11:26. As long as I'm there before midnight, it won't be a big deal.

So, I really need this train to hurry the fuck up.

After scrolling aimlessly on my phone for a few minutes, I remember I haven't done any journaling today. My therapist, Irene, implemented daily journaling a few weeks ago when I switched from one session a week to one session every two weeks. That way we can both process and understand my emotions in my time away from her. Not that there's much to process. Pretty sure she asked me to do this because she thinks I'm still struggling. I didn't miss how she asked if I thought "cutting down our time together will be the right move."

Honestly, I love Irene. The work that she's done on me these past four years has been amazing. I don't think I would have survived if I hadn't met her. But right now things are just flat. I feel nothing. Not good, not bad, just...meh. There's no use in spending an hour (specifically $35) a week talking about nothing. She can have more time with her other patients. I know I can shoot her an email anytime I really need her.

That said, who knows how sloshed I'm getting tonight. If I don't journal now, it won't get done for the second day in a row, and she can tell when I don't do them.

I toss my phone in my pocket and pull my journal book and pen out from the inside pocket of my jacket, grateful that I went with this specific jacket tonight. I wear it all the time, so I keep my journal in it, but I was debating on wearing a different one. Then I heard my roommate's scolding voice in the back of my mind: "Bruh, you know that jacket color with those shoes is a fuckin' chop."

To which he once had to explain what the hell a chop is to me; basically meaning something is dumb, bad, or stupid. Living with him is like living with a New York slang dictionary book.

I find the wood bench on the platform, sit on the side farthest away from the man dozing off to the left, and start writing.