you were tall, held a magazine in your hands (who even reads those anymore — nobody including myself and i write for one) and wore a 90s style bomber jacket/sweater. you said you were from portland with a big smile on your face. you continued that the rapper aminé was the city’s hometown hero. i told you i was also ethiopian like him and i loved him. we sat quietly as you continued on with your magazine and i anxiously thought i should’ve kept talking to you. you got off the L train at myrtle wyckoff and i hopped off just merely two stations after. i kicked myself for not continuing the conversation or asking for your social media.