Coming home on the L train tonight, I caught the last one into Brooklyn that took me to Graham. For future reference, Carmine’s Pizza is open until 12. I saw something that I had to write about. I sat there (yay got a seat) and watched a young couple. Almost the cliche of the young, urban hipster pair. She with her green dress and light makeup and wide-eyed hope and him, with his plaid shirt unbuttoned halfway down with his tattoos defying modern society, regardless of what it is, his hair slicked back and the Lou Reed biography, that he’ll half-heartedly read and quote when he can. Every time he looked away, her stare at him, almost burning, was entirely unwavering. And when he’d look back, she’d blush and light up like a star. I couldn’t hear a word of their conversation, but it instantly occurred to me that he could give a flying fuck about whatever it was she was talking about. She could be telling him the secrets of the universe and his only thoughts were, “Shut up, until we fuck again and you say my name.” I’m sure I come off with an air of superiority, I’m sure. I know I have a savior complex, but I just wanted to grab her hand as they exited the train and go, “He’s going to be the footnote that sets the tone for the rest of your mistakes.” To which, she’d spray me in the face with mace and I’d cry. There’s no moral, no great truth that I have to share, I make the same mistakes and worse than this. It’s just a story.