In which The Gay Recluse is always late.

This morning we reluctantly got out of bed at 7:15 am — instead of our usual 7:30 — so that we would have enough time to do everything we needed to do and catch the 8:20 train instead of the 8:30, because we had an important 9:00 am meeting and the commute is closer to 40 minutes.

Thus logic would dictate that we should have had plenty of time, assuming we didn’t fritter it away.

And we started off pretty well, too!

We didn’t linger in the shower, or stand paralyzed by indecision in front of our shirts in the closet, trying to remember the fragments of a fading dream from the previous night.

To the contrary, we glided through these basic preparations with an assured ease that — giddy with our success — left us considering the idea of returning to bed for a short nap.

But then we spent a few seconds admiring the golden hue of the sun on the Washington Heights rooftops.

And when the seagulls arrived, how could we resist taking a few photos?

Maddeningly, the birds were not taking our mental direction to circle toward us at an angle that would best highlight their wingspans and the position of the bridge!

And then we remembered that we had to spritz the orchids, which took a few minutes, because the water bottle was empty.

And then — omg, we almost forgot! — Dante needed a pill for his asthma!

Then we had to floss and brush! In the old days, we would have blown this off, but now we’re addicted to flossing, especially with the mint-flavored variety we have.

Needless to say, by this point we had used up all of our surplus time and were officially cutting it close.

We grabbed our backpack, said goodbye to the cats, practically fell down eight flights of stairs (always faster than the shitty elevator, which has not been upgraded since its installation in 1914, because it would cost the landlord $20, and he only nets $40k/month.)

We sprinted across Broadway and over to Amsterdam Avenue, where there was too much traffic to cross. As we waited for the light, we could feel the ground trembling beneath our feet: the train was entering the station.

We sprinted down the steps and through the turnstile, just in time to hear the officious ding-dong and subsequent rattle of the closing subway doors. The conductor was just a few feet away from us and he looked straight through our imploring gaze. In his world, we didn’t exist.

We bitterly watched the train as it accelerated out of the station and resisted the temptation to wave at everyone who was on it, as if we were having the last laugh. But in truth we had lost: it was 8:21 and the next train wouldn’t arrive for ten minutes, meaning we would definitely be late for our meeting. We aimlessly drifted down the endless platform, which had never seemed more desolate.

We watched a pair of rats scurry along the opposite platform and admired a few subterranean masterpieces from which the advertising banners had been stripped off. Resigned to our fate, we pulled out the latest issue of New York Magazine and wished that we, too, had a two-tiered garden in the sky.