Recently, I was taking the train home from work on a Friday. My husband was out of town working on our trailer project upstate, which meant our children were home without adult supervision. That usually goes well for the first couple of hours, but at some point Frankie tires of entertaining Indy by playing Minecraft or Indy lets her know that he no longer wants to be bossed around by mounting a rebellion of middle fingers and throwing various objects at her.

Regardless, I thought it would be lovely to remain seated on the train, a little stoned, with my book, skipping my stop and all the subsequent ones, so that I could keep riding and reading. The paradox of being surrounded by people while remaining relatively anonymous that happens on the train is quite comforting. Cocooned in my coat and the words of Mona Simpson’s newest book, this irresponsible fantasy of traveling without a destination and being completely alone felt warranted. In fact, it seemed quite reasonable to me. I take …