It happened on Tuesday. The first cold morning on the 1 train, and I was standing on the 137th Street platform in a linen shirt like an absolute fool.
August in New York lies to you. It makes you believe summer is permanent, that you will always be sweating on the subway grate, that you'll never need sleeves again. And then September clears its throat and says: sit down.
I could see my breath. Barely, but it was there. That little ghost of warmth leaving my mouth on the uptown platform.
The first cold morning on the 1 train is a specific New York event. Everyone dresses wrong. A man in shorts. A woman clutching an iced coffee with the grim determination of denial. We are all pretending it isn't happening.
By the time I got off at Christopher Street the sun had softened everything and I felt silly for shivering. That's the trick of early September. Cold at 8am, warm by noon, cold again by the time you're walking home.
My mummy used to layer me in sweaters at the first hint of a breeze back in Ahmedabad, even when it was frankly still 30 degrees. I used to fight her on it. Now I text her a photo of my goosebumps and she just types "I told you so" across an ocean and eleven time zones.
The deli guy on my corner already switched his window sign. Pumpkin something. It's not even properly fall and the city is rushing ahead like it always does, three steps in front of the actual weather.
I bought a chai from him anyway. Real chai, not the syrup kind, because he makes it for me the way I taught him after a very long conversation about cardamom.
Winter is coming for us and honestly, I think I missed it.
Wear a jacket tomorrow. You know you won't. Neither will I.
Love,