An Intense Game of Jenga

The wind slaps me harshly with a chill. The same way the woman's shoulder did as I turned the corner onto 3rd Street. The breeze comes from various directions, sending my hair flush against my forehead. The tickle of hair fosters an unexpected layer of warmth.

I've never minded the wind in the fall. In the cozy months from September to November, the wind serves a purpose—it pushes the leaves onto their fated trek from tree to ground. A metamorphosis of sorts. I didn't mind when it aggressively flirted with my skirt, gifting me a modern-day Marlyn Monroe moment. The strands of hair in my lipgloss were simply an element of the season. 

In the winter, however…the wind is brutal. It constructs an all-consuming rage in me that leaves a nasty wake. You can see this rage in everyone around you. This weather didn't create that rush of alliance that bonds together strangers endearing a shared unfortunate reality—the connectedness one feels to the person beside them as they witness a comically dramatic Karen in Starbucks. The unwavering wind of the winter doesn't promote that charm of humanity, but rather it composes animosity. Everyone seems to appear warmer than yourself. There’s no real logic behind this assertion, but you are quite certain the stock man in front of you is taking the harsh weather better—deep, hostile envy forms.   

 There are clusters of people in line at a food truck as I wait to cross the street—all in long black coats. The heat from the truck is visible this season. I brush past people who walk with leisurely legs, slowly stepping with seemingly no destination. The punch line of a joke, followed by laughter, then a sip of coffee. Beside them are mirrors of myself—trotting with purpose, naturally evading the puddles of people and wet ground. My phone flashes, “.4 of a mile until you reach your destination”. 

The walls are lined with books—bookcases from the hardwood floor to the dimly lit ceiling. An amalgamation of deep-roasted coffee grounds dominates the subtle spur of the prosecco among the bar top. To the left of the bar, small circular coffee tables accompany various vintage couches. All the furniture is occupied by a unique, keenly focused reader. Some have a glass of red wine in their hand, and others sip on tea. 

I feel inferior to the company here. I have yet to define myself as a valid functioning adult, regardless of the fact I have been for 2 years. The people here just appear significant, not just in this bar, but Manhattan in general.

 I attempt a discreet snoop at what others read around me. I am instantly self-conscious about my choice of novel tonight. I had contemplated bringing one of the Erich Fromm books that fill my desk but ultimately decided I should finish the god-awful thriller I committed to this week. It's not in my nature to abandon a book unfinished. I’ll admit, sadistically, I enjoy leaving a 1-star review on my Goodreads. I like to think it shows grit. Good on her for finishing the book even though she found it trash. 

The soft hum of jazz music harmonizes with the polite volume of conversation that fills the room. Nearly every wall of books is inhabited by a pleased customer. Delicate fingers pull out novels like in an intense game of Jenga. Briefly reading the synopsis before placing it back into the tight nuzzle of books. Imagining the hours that live in these cases is a suffocating idea, almost threatening. How many nights of tears were involved in the creation? Days of pity and self-doubt. Did one book in this room inspire the concept for another just a shelf over? Do people suddenly sit down and hammer out a novel?

A quiet British voice attracts my attention. She wears a long denim skirt, a thick wool sweater, and a New York Knicks hat. Her hair is a soft, hazelnut brown. The book in hand is titled How to Kill Your Family. It takes me a few moments to realize she's talking to me. “Is that Chardonnay?”

Even though her assertion is soft, I associate this woman with confidence. I can't decide if it’s due to her accent or outfit. Perhaps the combination? It must be because I know she must have made a voyage across the country to be here. But really how does that make her different from myself?