There is a woman who I recognize, sitting directly across from me on the subway.
Her face isn’t what caught my eye; it’s her large feet. I’m always impressed to see feet on a woman that are noticeably larger than mine.
She is sitting cross-legged, and her size 12 snake-skin flat is dangling off her right foot in the middle of the train car. It’s hard to miss.
I realize that I waited tables with her in Times Square 10 years ago. We are both trained actors, and we are both the same type: tall and sturdy. I can’t recall her name, but we got along well enough.
We auditioned for the same roles. We slung shrimp together. We lived the dream.
Now, ten years later, we sit opposite from one another in our business casual clothes, on our way home from our day jobs. She is drinking an iced coffee, and we are both staring at our phones.
We both look tired. It’s Monday after all.
We don’t make eye contact and I am glad for it. I am terrible with names and I really don’t have much to say. I am sure the conversation will most likely be the same conversation I have with every other actor over the age of 30:
“I see you have a day job. I do to. What happened to us?”
“I needed to make real money. I couldn’t wait tables anymore. And having health insurance is an amazing thing, isn’t it?”
She exits the train at Grand Army Plaza, 5 stops before mine. I watch her snake-skin flats disappear into the crowd.
The train doors close. I look down at my feet, thankful for my size 10’s.