April 2nd
Bursting out of the hospital main entrance, you sprint down 168th street while fumbling in your purse for your metro card. Feeling bad as you shove past people on the narrow stairs, it always grosses you out to touch the railings, so you feel a little stab of guilt when you send a guy with an oversized backpack sprawling, having to grab ahold of the bacteria ridden railing to stop himself falling (but really not too much, he was dawdling and you cannot miss this train). Your metro card doesn't swipe the first time and you need to take a breath to calm down before successfully trying again and racing for the escalators. Making it to the platform you see it still has a decent amount of people around, most of them dressed similarly to you, in hospital scrubs with the same tired expression; excellent, you haven't missed your train.
Now that you can relax a little you pull your phone out of your purse and insert your headphones, you learnt a long time ago the best way to survive New York transit was to block it all out. As the train pulls up you've already got Amy Winehouse queued up and ready to whisk you away. As soon as the doors open you scurry aboard, sending a couple of people you recognize as coworkers (a nurse who works surgery and a first year ortho resident) your patented glare, you've been on your feet for 16 hours, you cannot fathom standing all the way home too. Luckily, you're able to snag a seat, but it's near the door, so every time someone comes in or out they bustle past you.
The sound of laughter startles your awake and you mumble (you're sure incoherently), frantically looking around to see what stop you're at. It's no laughing matter, the last time you fell asleep on the subway you woke up in Brooklyn, doubling your time to get home. Realizing you're only at 72nd street you let out a sigh of relief, you must have only been out for five minutes having woke up just in time for you to transfer at the next stop. The laughter around you continues; only this time accompanied by shrieks as feet shuffle into your field of vision. You've been living in the city for three years, and within your first week here you learned not to stare or make eye contact with people on the train, or the bus for that matter. Against your better instincts something about this commotion, the captivating sound of the laughter makes you look up. There are five girls, each of them dressed in classic New York hipster uniform (that you kind of hate), standing in the area near the doors. Their attention is focused on a blonde girl stood in the center (and the source of the laughter), and you notice she is the most ridiculously dressed out of all of them. Starting at her wing-tipped shoes, you smirk at the pattered socks, up ludicrously long legs, to super short high waisted shorts held up by red suspenders, a Mickey mouse vest and finally the most beautiful face you have ever seen framed by golden hair (not even the fact that she's wearing a red checked deer stalker can change your mind; and you're not usually into sappy shit). She's swinging on the poll, shaking her hips widely, while her friends cackle with laughter around her. Your startled by the announcement of your stop, jumping up you have to push through the group to reach the sliding doors. As your pushing through you bump right into their leader.
"Sorry Doctor"
Blue eyes twinkle as she stares at your chest, you frown until you remember your hospital ID attached to the front pocket of your scrubs. You nod, making eye contact briefly and time seems to stand still, that is until the train jerks to a stop and you're thrown forward, barely regaining your balance before hitting the floor. You can feel the flush on your face, but she's just smiling before bowing low and with an exaggerated flourish of her hand extended toward the exit. Just as you step out onto the platform you hear an explosion of laughter behind you.
"Fuck Britt!"
"Britt you dork!"
Even through you're embarrassment you smile. Britt, you wonder what that can be short for; Brittany you presume but an assumption about a name has gotten you into trouble before. Not that it matters, there are eight million people in this city, the chances of you seeing her again are like zero.