I got on the Seven and fell into a reverie. I was just awake enough by the next stop to realize I had to get off, Fifth Avenue–Bryant Park. I was the last one out the door and the conductor closed it on me, fucking bastard. I struggled with it, a bit more than I thought I’d have to. I held the left side open as it dug into my arm. Finally it opened again. I walked out onto the platform, dazed and upset. I wanted to yell at the conductor craning his head out his window but I couldn’t find him and the train was rolling anyway. I climbed up the steps to the main level and as I walked toward the corridor I felt a naked feeling on my wrist, an unfamiliar breeze. My watch was gone.

Had I put it on that morning? Yes. I remembered lifting up my arm to check the time. The wrong time. The fast time. Trying to guess how fast it was by now, how many minutes it might have gained since I set it to Daylight Savings. Five? Ten? Not knowing exactly was part of the idea.

I retraced my steps, peering in the grimy spaces around the painted steel beams and stairs. Finally I was back on the platform, at the spot where I’d gotten off the train. I leaned over and tried to make out anything glinting in the shadows. There was a soda bottle. A glove. A straw. Nothing. I saw the light of the next train coming so I turned around and walked away.