She cried, privately in public

Penn Station. Thursday, November 4, 6:30 PM. Starbucks. I sit down, waiting for my latte. The distinct opening notes of Nilsson’s “Everybody’s Talkin’” play, but they’re immediately pierced by the sound of someone very near by starting to cry. I look up and see a young woman across the table from me, head down, muffin half-eaten, sobbing by her cup of coffee.

I look away, waiting for my coffee to finally be ready. Privately, in a very public place, she continues to cry. Then she seems to stop, momentarily. After getting my latte, I sit back down, and she begins to cry again. She doesn’t seem much older than my own children, and I begin to wonder. Did someone close to her die? Did her boyfriend break up with her? Did she lose her job?

I lean over and ask her, “Are you going to be okay?” She looks up, nods, and says, “I’m fine.” As I get up to leave, she looks at me and smiles faintly. I return the half-smile, and walk out to catch a train to Newark, where I will meet my son and go with him to a soccer game. Presumably, she collected herself shortly afterwards and moved on. Destination unknown, but hopefully a happier place.