I left my apartment near 145th in a sundress because yesterday it was 78 degrees and I am, apparently, a woman who does not check the weather.
The first cold morning of the season does not announce itself. It just shows up. I walked down to the 1 train station and the wind coming off the platform went straight through the cotton like it had a personal vendetta.
Everyone on the 1 train was dressed like they knew. Trench coats. Scarves. One man in a full flannel situation reading a paperback like autumn was his idea. And there I was, arms crossed, pretending I wasn't shivering, doing the very NYC thing of refusing to admit I'd made a mistake in public.
The first cold morning always makes me think of Ahmedabad, weirdly. Not because it ever gets cold there in this way, but because my mummy used to appear with a shawl the second the temperature dropped even one degree. She had a sixth sense for it. Here nobody appears with a shawl. Here you just suffer and call it independence.
I got off at 66th to grab chai before work — well, a chai latte, which my mother would call an insult, and she would be correct.
The barista said, "Sweater weather already, huh," and I said yes like I had planned for this. Like I wasn't visibly purple.
There's something I love about the turn, though. The way the light on Broadway goes gold and low in the afternoon. The way the city collectively decides it's soup season. The way the trains smell a little less like summer garbage and a little more like wet wool.
I walked the last few blocks with my coffee warming both hands and I thought, okay. Okay, autumn. I see you. I'll be ready tomorrow.
I will not be ready tomorrow.
Check the weather. I never do either.
Love,