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Source: Glen Luchford Photography

On her way home from a weekday night out, she waits at an empty 1st Avenue subway station. It's best to decompress after nights like this in a silence only broken by the rumbling of train cars and a familiar voice announcing, "Please Stand Clear of the Closing Doors". Outside all eyes were on her, captivated by her head-to-toe Gucci uniform, but alone in the station, gusts of wind kicked up by rhythmic movements of the subway cars take their turn to captivate her senses.

She was a conductor of the night, parting seas of people who not dared to graze her body. Only now, in a solitary moment in the underground veins of the city, does nature itself recognize her aura and dare be the first element to make contact. As if to humble her, a gust of wind tears through her tediously pampered hair, reminding her of the fleeting nature of her pageantry. Her manufactured perfection dissolved, and she crossed over the yellow line and through the train doors.

She sat in the empty car and listened to droning sounds of the metal vessel passing through the tunnels. She listened to the wind who shattered the fabricated version of her persona, and she was thankful for that wind, because for the first time that night she was able to breath.

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