You Better Be Wearing a Seatbelt,"_ and _"I Just Met a Guy, I Know It's Going to Last."_ The girl is singing: _"I just met a guy and I know it's going to last,"_ and the guy at the end is singing: _"I know it's gonna last, I know it's gonna last,"_ and then they're both singing together, _"I know it's gonna last forever."_ She gets as close as she can and smiles as the couple kiss, arms around each other, bodies so entwined she's sure they have to touch to stay attached. The video cuts to the girl walking toward the subway. The shot is grainy and the train is coming from a distance. I can see the subway doors opening, the train rolling past, her body turning sideways for the exit. The image is blurred by a curtain of steam, and then she's gone. She's off on her new journey, this city her stage. I don't feel better after that moment with the girl on the train. If anything, I feel worse. I feel less whole. Or maybe I feel more alone. I've never really been one for New Year's resolutions. I know this isn't going to be one of those kinds of days, with champagne corks and friends popping Champagne. For the people who do like New Year's Eve, this is usually a quiet night, a chance to catch up, catch up with loved ones or loved ones' loved ones. Most people are home with loved ones. I always try to look at this new year with a new perspective. And that's why, this year, I'm trying something new. I'm not going to look at the coming year as being anything other than the next day. That's my resolution: to look at the next day as if it's the first. New Year's Eve is on Tuesday, and tomorrow is my first day back on the job. It's been exactly two months. I turn back to the city. _January is for New Beginnings_ , the girl had told me in those last few seconds before the subway doors shut. A gust of wind blows through the open window. I'm suddenly freezing cold. # My plan is to sit on a park bench near the subway exit and watch the commuters. They'll come out of the cold and wet, slurping hot coffee and sipping tea and coffee, walking in from the train, shaking themselves off, warming up, heading off to start another day. I'll sit and wait for my first stop as the girl: a guy with dark hair who steps out of a subway as if he's just woken up and has to blink himself into the light, or maybe a girl with hair that smells like cinnamon, standing at the top of the stairs, taking a break, just enough to breathe, to think, to glance at her phone. I start to count down. One, two, three, four. Then I'm looking at the clock on the dashboard, counting the seconds ticking away, waiting for my stop. I should have worn the green scarf; I look ridiculous without it. I feel like a refugee from a war zone as I walk into the building. Even though the city is cold, sweat is dripping down my back. _A girl has a right to be nervous_ , I think. _She's about to walk into a job she doesn't want, where she doesn't fit, where she doesn't have anything to offer_. _And I'm just not an innocent bystander anymore_ , I think as I pass by the doorman and stand in line to take the elevator up to the twenty-third floor. I look at my watch. 10:00 AM. I need to be at the hotel by 10:45, in twenty-one minutes. I stand, nervous, trying not to think of anything but the meeting. I watch the numbers tick past: 10:22, 10:23, 10:24. I try not to think about how much time I have left to figure out this. I wonder if I'll have any contact with the city while I'm at the hotel. Am I going to have to go to _that_ place as much as I did the last two months? Maybe it'll be even worse. Maybe I'll have to go every single day; maybe I'll have to keep a diary or just keep the notebook I wrote all those lists in. I don't know if I'm ready for that. I try to imagine how much time I'd have to give up if I went in that often. How many hours at the gym, how many hours of reading, how much time not being on the subway, walking, doing something else besides my job, not being around other people. What's that? Twenty, thirty, forty hours a week. But every week. What about vacations? And then there's food. I don't know what this is going to be like. But what is it I'm trying to avoid by _not_ going back to my job? Am I just trading one bad thing for another? _I'm being paranoid_ , I think as the elevator doors open. My roommate is sitting on her bed flipping through a magazine, her back to the door. I don't look at her, but turn left and wait for the door to close. I'm staring out the window, watching people as they go about their business. Some of them walk hurriedly; some of them saunter through the morning like they own the place. I think about how much I'm counting on them. It's 8:30. It's time. I open the door and look at her. I take a deep breath and put on my most sympathetic smile. "How was your trip?" she asks as she sits on the edge of the bed, looking at me as if I'm her new roommate, someone she doesn't know very well, as if this is not the person who, only hours ago, told her about New Year's Eve. "Fine," I say. "Couldn't be better." "I thought you were going to sit with me," she says. "It was just going to be us." "I had other things to do," I say, trying to keep my voice steady. "I don't have a watch," I add quickly. "I'll make it up to you. I have to leave. I have to meet the others." She's still looking at me, the same annoyed look on her face. "Did you have fun?" she asks. "Yes." I don't mention the subway girl. I don't tell her about the city or about how long the cold feels. I don't tell her how much it has all just reminded me of how awful I am at this job. _I don't want to be reminded of how awful I am_ , I think. I'm not doing this for her. I'm not doing this to get myself off the hook, but that's not going to be how it looks to her. "You can never know what people are going through," she says as I open the door. "It's nothing but what's in front of them. They don't see the world, they just see their little world." I nod as I turn toward the door. I have a right to be here, but does that mean I'm not allowed to be sad about how little I care about the girl in the train? The girl who had nothing better to do with her time than sit and think. The girl I couldn't help. I'm not doing this for her. I'm doing it for me. "What are you doing with that scarf?" she asks as I turn the corner. "It looks like a boa." "Thanks." "Take care of yourself," she says. # In the morning, I get off the elevator. I walk down a few floors and then walk back up two flights of stairs to my room, where I'm finally alone. I take my wallet out of my pocket. The room is furnished in the seventies, the seventies of the seventies, the seventies that have been retrofitted to suit the nineties and now our time. There's a tiny plastic-covered bedspread on the bed, no sheets or comforter, as if someone was going to run out and get something nice but then decided not to. Everything is covered in plastic. There's a TV on top of the dresser, but the sound is off. There's a microwave, a mini-fridge, and a hot plate sitting next to it. The closet looks like it was designed by two different people. I've got jackets and sweatshirts piled up at the bottom, the top stacked with neatly folded T-shirts. There's a framed poster of a woman wearing only a white sheet and dancing on top of a car that says "Have you ever danced? If not, you're not living." The bottom is a pile of clothes that might or might not make it to the dryer, and if they do, they might still have a wrinkle or two before I put them on. I sit on the edge of the bed, and, for the first time in weeks, I