My sneakers peep and grind as I almost-run down to the bottom of the smallest steps in the world at the 2nd Ave. F. The August febrile air clouts me straight on the nose, next it’s given me a proverbial black eye, and then the rest of my body feels the buffet. I have made a conscious effort to always stay stationary near train tracks, “Mr. Clumsy, a real southpaw”, I say to myself; with my apparently signature eyebrow tilt. I halt myself, backpacked and endowed with headphones, and find a pillar to lean on. On the pillar a heart with two sets of initials are wounded through the paint; the one set matches my own.
It’s Radiohead. It always is – I mean the music in my mind and inevitably on my ears. He is definitely staring. No doubt that’s a stare. But at me? Really. Just me, silly rough and tumble me. He is jabbing my eyes with his darker than Heath Ledger Joker peepers as he leans too deeply back against the wall across the 8 p.m. platform. Moisture runs down my cheek as I fight the p…