i want out (or another short story about nyc subways)

by Kendra Augustin

I went to add money to my MetroCard and the only MetroCard machine was out of service.

Every other machine was OMNY.

I walked ten streets to the next station, and all the MetroCard machines were coin only.

Every other machine was - you guessed it - OMNY.

It’s as if I woke up and all the rules had changed yet no one told me.

I waited for someone to open the exit door so I could walk through.

A woman, maybe in her 40s, opened the door.

I went through, thanked her, she nodded, and I nodded back.

There were three cops shooting the shit, hanging on the wall like schoolgirls.

I looked in their direction, but they didn’t look in mine.

I was disappointed because what’s their purpose?

But I was relieved because what a silly thing to patrol.

I got on the train. The first time I’d been in over a year.

Thirteen months ago I married the human embodiment of peace - Shelley.

She was the most easy-going person I ever met.

At first, I thought it was a façade, but she truly was very gentle. And sweet.

She did not speak negatively about anyone.

She never raised her voice.

She never showed any irritation - mild or otherwise.

She was…stillness.

We moved into a simple one-bedroom apartment in a quiet Brooklyn neighborhood after we got married. She taught at a private school nearby. Five mornings a week, I worked at the Yemeni cafe across the street from our apartment. On Thursdays and Fridays after the cafe, I worked at the public library ten streets away as a page.

On the weekends, Shelley and I went to nearby comedy venues to watch whatever improv, stand up, sketch show we could find.

We also lived two blocks away from a movie theater that played films made before the ‘00s at noon. Films from the ‘00s to anything out of theatres until 5pm, and current releases until 11pm. I was set. Everything I needed was within walking distance. And if it wasn’t, I would ride a Citi Bike. Abandoning the subway was freeing.

Tonight is my first time back.

I'm on the D train now and this couple is arguing quite viciously. I’m afraid the husband is going to hit his wife. I don’t intervene. No one else does either.

After five minutes of their bickering, I could feel tears form behind my eyes.

They reminded me of when I was a kid watching my parents fight for hours.

The familiarity was comforting and terrifying.

If my dad knew I was about to cry, he would force me to play a sport to remind me that crying was not a thing boys did. Whenever I seemed vulnerable or “chicken,” there’d be a ball in my hand. I tried hard to think about ice hockey, or lacrosse, or rugby but tears fell anyway.

One nice thing about the couple’s public display of verbal violence was the distraction made it safe for me to quietly sob. I made sure not to make a sound, so I didn't seem like an attention hog.

A Latino man, maybe in his 30s, finally speaks up and tells them to stop. The couple each say something - in Mandarin? - and the 30-something man asks if anyone on the train speaks their language. No one responds.

Finally the woman says in English, “He said he is going to kill me” and we find out that they’re not a couple. He’s just an angry, drunk man she accidentally sat too close to. When the train doors finally open, I run out like I am being chased. I stop to look back just in case Shelley is somehow running after me. She isn’t.

She always took the trains. If I didn’t know, I would think she must have lived in the subway station because it occupied our every conversation.

Earlier when I said she was “peace,” she was - about everything but the trains.

I would have been on time if there weren’t so many delays.

A man masturbated in front of me.

A bunch of drunk assholes dressed as Santa.

Someone killed themselves again.

I stepped in vomit as soon as I entered.

To see such a non-fussy woman fuss was… disorienting.

I'd never seen her worked up or passionate about anything like she was about New York City Transit. Not even me.

People are bumping into me. I move out of the way and then I am in someone else’s way. I don’t miss this. I run up the steps, and then the next set of steps, just to be outside and not be such a nuisance to all these people who run in a rush to get home at 9pm. I take my phone out of my pocket to call Shelley and it just rings and rings then goes to voicemail. She blocked me.

Two weeks ago, Shelley and I got into a fight:

Your refusal to leave this neighborhood makes me feel trapped. I know that if I go to a different borough or New Jersey, I’m going to have to go alone because you won’t go on the train.

We can walk.

I don’t want to walk when it’s 100 degrees outside or when the streets are icy or when schools let out or when it’s pouring rain or -

Then we can walk when the weather is nice.

It’s New York City. That’s just October. What about the other 11 months?

I could feel myself about to say something very destructive. Explosive.

I want out! I blurted out. KABOOM!

What? She says utterly confused.

I wanted to stop. I want out. I say again, almost in a whisper.

Out of what? She is still utterly confused.

I can’t stop. Out of this life. With you. Fuck.

What?

I want to shut up. I want out of this marriage. Idiot!

She didn’t say anything. Just had a look of shock.

I saw the irony in her telling me she felt trapped and me acting as if I felt trapped too.

I’m not sure if I did. I just had to say it. Maybe to win.

All she said was, Ok.

Then she left.

I haven’t seen her since.

I call her three times a day - to say what? I don’t know. That I was sorry? That I didn’t mean it?

That her telling me how I was failing made me want to hurt her too?

That it was exciting to see her be mad at me?

The next morning, I went to the train station hoping that the out of service MetroCard machine would be in service. It wasn’t.

I tried the next station over and instead of coins only, the MetroCard station was now single-ride tickets only. I couldn’t help but feel like MetroCard users were being left behind.

It’s not that there’s anything wrong with OMNY - I’ve never looked into it - it’s just that I bought this MetroCard a week before Shelley left me. It expires in a year, and I want to use it until it can’t be used anymore.

Before she left, I planned on finally going on the subway again. I just didn’t tell her because. I was annoyed that she was angry about something I intended to do just because she didn’t know I intended to do it.

A child goes under the turnstile and opens the door for their mom and the stroller she’s pushing. I walk in behind the child and hold the door open for the mother and her stroller. She thanks me.

There are no cops or guards at this station.

I missed the train because I was helping the mother carry her stroller down the stairs. She apologized. I told her it didn't matter because when the next train comes, I’m going to ride it until the last stop just in case my wife shows up. She smiles politely and goes to the other end of the platform.

The next train comes after eight minutes.

The morning after Shelley left, I went to her job, and no one would give me any info on her.

I guess no one there was aware we were married.

I didn’t really know her community.

Outside of work, she was the only person I hung out with.

Her friends always met her somewhere I didn’t go.

And the ones I did meet, I didn’t bother getting to know them.

I did have her sister’s number and her mother’s number.

I called them but it looks like they blocked me too.

After the fifth stop on the D train, a father and his young daughter get on. Once they sit, they begin playing Christmas songs and singing along. It’s wholesome, or it should be, but I hate them for it. It’s weeks before Christmas and I can sense I’m not the only person who isn’t in the Christmas spirit. It feels unsettling to bring so much noise and forced joy into a filthy, smelly, kinda hot, nearly crowded limbo. That’s what the subway trains feel like: vehicles leading us to our doom. Especially since it's 70 degrees one day and 40 the next. This week has been a string of 70-degree days.

I don’t bring a book, or headphones, or anything because I don’t want to miss Shelley.

I bet she’d see me with my head down or distracted and hide behind a tall guy or run off.

It’s silly to love people then run from them.

The child and her father stay until I reach the final stop.

The next afternoon I didn’t bother to check if the MetroCard machine was in service. I hopped the turnstile. I figured if a cop suddenly appeared in the copless station and shot me dead then maybe that’d be fine.

I get onto the train and there is a man sleeping. I sat across from him since everyone else avoided being near him. Hey, a free seat is a free seat. I figure as long as he didn’t wake up, maybe it would be fine.

I regret not taking a book with me. Right now, I feel a bit starved for conversation and wonder if someone would strike one with me if I had whatever the hottest book of the moment was.

Shelley and I used to talk all the time about anything.

About the stupidest things: If Yorkies were more attractive than Corgis.

Cinema things: If only one Coppola was a director would we rather it be Sofia or Francis Ford?

Food things: Korean for breakfast, Mexican for lunch, Ethiopian for dinner?

Pop things: Who’s got the better discography - Charli XCX, Lorde, Marina?

The sleeping man gets up and starts shouting something I can’t quite understand. People are nervous but they try not to act like it just in case he gets violent. He doesn’t. He just goes back to resting after he says whatever he needs to.

I am jealous of him. He is tired so he rests publicly.

He is frustrated so demands to be heard.

I don’t have the courage to do either.

I want to shout.

I want to scream: HAS ANYONE SEEN MY WIFE?

She’s currently my screensaver.

I want to show her picture to every person on the train and scream: TELL ME WHERE I CAN FIND HER?

But if she saw my screensaver she would laugh, I think. I never had her as my screensaver. Even when we went to shows I never acted like we were together.

I hated public displays of affection. Even our wedding was just us two - kissing reserved for our hotel room.

Maybe I’m this way because when I was three, I tried to kiss my dad on the cheek, and he slapped me so hard my loose tooth fell out. Then he made me run laps.

At three years old.

My mom scolded him, but she didn’t stop him. She never did.

I was very affectionate to my wife in our home where we often went without company.

When she visited my work, we were always respectfully distant.

Nobody there knew we were married either. One time I overheard my coworkers questioning if I

was asexual or an incel. It didn’t bother me because neither was true.

At comedy shows, I acted like she was my bud. She was my bud, but also more, obviously.

The resting man sits up and rambles some more. He never stands up. Just lets out what he needs to let out and then rests again. I think he wants out of his life.

The train doors open and it’s Shelley. That's the subway: you’ll stumble into the person you lost your virginity to or your dentist. Why not your wife?

Her hair is up in a messy bun, she’s dressed for summer - polka dot sundress, and for autumn - a black cardigan. She’s here. She looks at me but doesn’t say anything.

She looks so small.

Like a shy little kid.

This really nice, confident woman shrinks in my presence.

I never thought I could have so much power.

I’ve always felt small but, in my smallness, I could make other people smaller.

I get up - too fast maybe - and my head feels woozy, so I sit back down.

She nearly comes over to comfort me but stops herself.

At that moment, I realized I never wanted anyone to reconsider comforting me.

The resting man sits back up and starts screaming.

I scream with him.

Shelley screams too.

The resting man stops, perhaps annoyed that we are attention hogging.

I get up and Shelley screams at me.

I tell her I am so stupid.

She screams at me until her voice is hoarse.

I tell her I am so sorry.

She growls at me.

I tell her the only life I want out of is a life without her.

She spits at me.

I wipe it from my cheek and put it in my mouth and swallow it.

I tell her I miss the way she tastes.

She slaps me.

I tell her I want a baby.

She bites me.

I tell her I love her.

She breaks my nose.

I tell her to kill me if I ever am this stupid again.

She wipes my bloody nose and nods.

I kiss her and we kiss the way teenagers kiss on the subway: embarrassing for everyone,

uncomfortable for everyone, but we don’t fucking care.

Photo of Kendra Augustin

BIO: Kendra Augustin is Gotham Writers of Color Publish a Book Scholarship 2025, and a GrubStreet BWoC Literary Award 2025 recipient. She was accepted into Tin House’s Autumn Online Workshop 2025 for a dark fantasy novel in progress. She is currently editing her first short story collection.