August 13, 9:36 a.m.
B Train – 7th Avenue to 42nd Street
A woman in an orange shin-length dress has dropped something. She looks up from her seat and down over the hand rail, trying to peak beneath the seat. She stands, then bends over for a better look as the train rattles and shakes, but finds nothing. A woman across the aisle, also about 60 years old, jumps over. She points to something on the ground, but it turns out to be nothing.
“It’s a citrine,” the first woman says, of her now broken accessory. “It’s yellow.”
“Oh I hope you can fix it,” the other woman responds.
“You just take it to a jeweler. It’s a citrine. It’s not a diamond or something. You just take it to a jeweler. It’s a cirtine.”
A woman within earshot is talking loudly: “It’s not about the money. All the diamonds went to my brother. There was one ring she had that I loved. It was just set so beautifully. I loved that ring. We don’t know where it is. She had a caretaker with her, and, well…”
The woman is a dead ringer for Pippi Longstocking, if Pippi were 6’0″ and 250 pounds. She has red pigtails, denim overalls and a black tee. She’s telling the story to her husband, an imposing man with a large head amplified by a gray ponytail and long shaggy beard, extending 4 inches from his chin. The woman has begun crying about something as they find a seat, though seemingly not the jewelry. They kiss as he rubs her arm. He pulls her head into his, resting his cheek on her forehead. Their eyes are closed and they both smile, not needing to move a muscle.
At Grand St., the woman in orange stands once more. She bends to look again but departs, her citrine lost forever.