Let’s talk about how Eve fell in love with her own reflection in the gleaming pool and God had to nudge her to go find Adam. Well, I’ve met Adam and he looks like every man on the Tunnelbana: chunky black headphones arched over chestnut silk sliding seamlessly to his navy blue turtleneck, gazing out the window but actually at his own reflection. Because the blue line was built into a cave, the only way in and out is the two hundred sixteen foot escalator—even the Swedes don’t climb that many stairs. The black rock slab surrounding me has holes the size of my body that lead to more darkness and I’ve never patiently stood in such a lightless place before. But the heads of the men waiting are oil lanterns six feet in the air that guide me to a place that’s not home. Sitting on the shining plastic of the blue seat I stare at my own reflection, hair too bright for the blackness of the window, bits of hair that perished in the thermal baths of Iceland, feel it! It’s rope when it’s dry and gimp
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