I am standing on the platform at 23rd street eating a rose macaron, my favorite flavor from my most adored cafe. Whenever I have something to celebrate, I turn to this particular rose macaron. I find myself visiting this cafe quite often, dedicating a macaron to relationship milestones, personal achievements such as making a new friend or even bad days, the irony of honoring the survival of a particularly hellish 12 hours.
I finish my macaron and shift my bag from one shoulder to the next, careful not to crush the neat stack of papers that signify a new professional beginning. The bottle of champagne, a gift from a colleague, was not intended for this particular celebration but just maybe. It’s cold enough that I can see my breath but not cold enough to make me want to hibernate. However, It’s hard to tell when my body is pulsing with equal parts of excitement and fear.
The news is sacred and precious to me in this moment. I am doing normal New York things but I feel anything but normal. I look around at others standing with me on the platform thinking somehow they know what’s in my bag and understand that I’ve just been handed a fresh start and a new aspiration. The train pulls into the station and I step into my car wishing for one more rose macaron but quickly reminding myself not to overdo it, not to jinx my ambitious undertaking.
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