Many years ago, I met a friend for lunch in New York. This was in the days before cellphones, so we made a plan to find each other at the 96
th Street subway station. When I arrived, it was windy and rainy, so I huddled under an awning with my hood up. I was worried that my friend wouldn’t find me, but more worried that I would get soaked, so I stayed there, searching all the drab raincoats exiting the subway for a familiar form.
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After a few minutes, a body separated from the masses on the other side of Broadway, crossed the street, and approached me. It was my friend. “I knew it was you from over there,” he said, “because I could see you biting your nails.”