It happened Tuesday. I walked to the 1 train at 137th Street and the air had teeth.
The first cold morning on the 1 train is always a little bit theatrical. Overnight, half of Manhattan decided to become people who own coats. A man in a puffer sat next to me sipping his coffee like he had personally scheduled autumn.
I wasn't ready. I was still in my thin linen jacket from the sample sale, arms crossed, playing it cool the way you do when you refuse to admit you're freezing. Very stubborn. Very Gujarati aunty energy, honestly. My Mummy would have layered me in three sweaters before I hit the door.
By 96th Street the whole car had that quiet coziness. Foggy windows. Everyone tucked into themselves. Somebody's earbuds leaking an old Arijit Singh song, and I let it wash over me like a small mercy.
The first cold morning on the 1 train always makes me sentimental. September in New York doesn't announce itself. It sneaks. One day you're sweating through the Union Square farmers market, the next you're clutching a chai from the cart outside your office like it's a lifeline.
I got off at 50th and walked past the bodega where Hamid already had the little pumpkins out front. "Cold, na?" he said. He's from Lahore. We have a whole cross-border friendship built on complaining about weather.
I bought a banana I did not need just to stand in the warm doorway two minutes longer.
The thing about the first cold morning is it reorganizes you. Suddenly I'm craving khichdi, thick socks, the smell of the radiator waking up. My whole body remembering that this is the season I fell in love with this city.
Winter here will humble me eventually. It always does. But September? September is just flirting.
Bring me the coats. I'm ready to lie about being ready.
Love,