Tears Underground

I saw a woman crying on the subway a few days ago. She was sitting across from me, diagonal, so I had a clear view of her without being obtrusive. She looked to be in her mid to late 30s, with reddish blonde hair. She looked like the outdoorsy type, the kind of woman who might live in Iowa or Indiana. Her face was puffy and red. Her eyes were wet. She was looking down, not like she was trying to hide her tears, but just enough so that it wouldn't be so obvious. She was impossible to miss though. The car's harsh fluorescent lights hid nothing. Her eyes would crinkle, her mouth would contort, and she'd dab her face with a Kleenex. I watched and watched.

Naturally, I wondered why she was crying. I looked to my right and another woman was looking at her too, probably wondering the same thing as me. I began conjuring scenarios. Was she just dumped? Did she get fired? Did someone die? Did her dog get hit by a car? She wasn't telling. I examined her clothes, as if they might provide a clue. She wore some form of spandex or a leotard, the kind of outfit women wear to yoga or the gym (before covering their asses with a long sweatshirt). She couldn't be coming from work dressed like that, so it was unlikely she was just fired. Probably not dumped either. If he did it in person, at a restaurant (my preferred locale for severing ties), she wouldn't have worn gym garb to the hangman's noose. Of course, he could have done it via email, or text.... I made a mental note. The way she was crying though, portended something more dire. A death in the family, perhaps? A close friend? Had she just received some bad health news? Maybe she'd just come from the doctor where she was told she has herpes. Or HIV. Or cancer. The macabre possibilities grew in my mind, each outcome worse than the last. But she wasn't sobbing the way I'd expect if she'd been given that kind of news. And she probably would have taken a cab, not the subway home. Then again, I'd gotten at 42nd Street. Who knew where she'd come from? Maybe she'd been sobbing up at 125th Street, and I was just catching the tail end of it a few stops later.

I wanted to go up to her and ask her: "Are you okay? Is there anything I can do? Why are you crying?" I felt sorry for her. No one likes to see someone hurt or upset, even a stranger. It's rare to see tears on the subway. It's such an intimate space. We were only a few feet apart. It may as well have been a football field. You don't ask strangers such things. Still, I wanted to satisfy my curiosity. I needed to know. What could it be? What caused this? I got off at the next stop, Union Square. The crying woman went on her way to parts unknown. South, to the bottom of Manhattan. Possibly into Brooklyn. Two New York City strangers crossing paths.

I hope she feels better today.