It is not only that the C delivers us to Washington Heights, while the B veers east at 145th Street to the Bronx; there are, most notably, the seats; on the B they are oddly flat without the slight trough that allows us to lean back, to settle in and resume our contemplations. And is it just us, or does the lighting on the B seem a bit too bright, so that the passengers appear a bit ghoulish in the fluorescent haze? Or perhaps we are simply put off by the groups of eager and optimistic baseball fans — hats and jerseys proclaiming an undying love for a corporate trademark — on their way to ____ Stadium. Why do they talk so loudly, and with such terse, robotic enthusiasm? Needless to say, we are happy to note that these striving souls only rarely appear on the C, and will inevitably abandon us at 125th Street. The remaining stops on the C — 135, 145, 155, and 163 — before its terminus at 168, are always serene; the cars have emptied out, and the air is now filled with the resignation of yet another day gone by, and the certainty that an infinite number of others still await.