A Hundred Other Girls by Iman Hariri-Kia EPUB & PDF – eBook Details Online
- Status: Available For Free Download
- Author: Iman Hariri-Kia
- Language: English
- Genre: Coming of Age Fiction
- Format: PDF / EPUB
- Size: 2 MB
- Price: Free
There’s a special place in hell reserved for men who manspread on the
subway. Take this one guy: midthirties, hair slicked back with so much gel
you’d think he was speeding off to audition for the revival of Grease on
Broadway. But given his clean-cut gray suit, leather briefcase, and the pace
at which he’s whispering into his earpiece, he’s most likely in finance. My
guess? Investment banking or trading, based solely on the size of that Rolex
hanging off his left wrist. I roll my eyes as he allows his right knee to
meander a few inches wider, effectively taking up three whole subway
seats. This is what I do when I’m anxious: I people watch. As a native New
Yorker, studying different human species in the wild fills me with an odd
sense of inner peace. It’s like camping in the desert and staring up at the
stars—it reminds me that the world is so much bigger than me and my
anxiety.
I suddenly notice an elderly woman without a seat, clinging to one of the
ceiling handlebars. Since Goldman Ball-Sachs is too distracted to give up
an inch of space on the bench he and his junk have claimed as private
territory, I offer her mine. She graciously accepts and I smile at her. “Honey,
you should really fix that gap between your teeth,” she tells me, her voice
dripping with a thick Staten Island drawl. I stop smiling. New Yorkers are
fucking crazy—myself included.
Ladies and gentlemen, we are being held momentarily by the train’s
dispatcher. This is a Brooklyn Bridge–bound six local train. The next stop is
Wall Street. Stand clear of the closing doors, please.
I check my phone. It’s 1:42 p.m., which means I only have eighteen more
minutes to get to South Street Seaport. I was planning on arriving ten
minutes early, but that’s clearly no longer in the cards. Why do I even try to
be on time when the universe so clearly has a vendetta against me? I flip
open my camera and check out my reflection. My long, black, curly hair
has gone totally frizzy due to the July heat, so I pat it down using a little bit
of saliva, my thumb, and my forefinger. I straighten my gold nameplate
necklace, which says Noora, written in Farsi. Noor means light—as in, if I
don’t get my ass off the six train in the next eight minutes, I’ll never see the
light of day again.
I catch the banker dude looking at me looking at myself out of the corner
of my eye. At first, I think maybe he knows me from the internet. My blog,
NoorYorkCity, has around twenty-two thousand followers on Instagram.
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