The blue, vinyl seats are cool and hard, on this F train speeding towards Coney Island.
Beside me is a young man, his arms painted with tattoos, his face a parade of piercings and his thick, dark hair is tucked haphazardly beneath a blue New York Mets ballcap.
Across from me is an elderly woman, sleeping, eyes closed, hands firmly clutching her pale green purse and small feet tucked deftly in to white stockings, tucked in to white Reebok running shoes. Beside her is a young mother, reading to young her son.
It's Sunday and this car on this train to Coney Island is nearly empty just nine riders in all. It's a day when the cars of the train might be expected to overflow with individuals and families heading to the beach, but not today. Not today, because fall is in the air and it's been raining for over forty-eight hours, sidewalks slick with moisture and streets filled with puddles of water racing to the gutters.
The beach at Coney Island is nearly empty, the rides are closed for the season and one hardy hotdog vendor huddles over his food cart, tucked beneath a bright orange umbrella, ketchup and mustard containers tilted haphazardly.
A book of short stories, an orange-color covered journal, my favorite pen, and a laminated, folding map of Coney Island. They all lay untouched, as I drink in the entirety of this beach, on this day, in this moment in time.
A quiet refuge from the harried chaos of the city, this is my Coney Island Sunday..