The pitter-pattering of the helicopters in the sky can be heard before you even reach the air above the subway. You can still hear the recorded woman over the loudspeaker softly but firmly scolding you; "please be careful using the escalators–" underneath the ground you're standing are the trains, screeching to a halt. "This is an 8th Ave A train-" you zone out before you hear the engine rumbling, loud, louder, then softer as it picks up its speed into the tunnel. The man with the saxophone pours his soul into his instrument, the dimly lit lights lining the tiled ceiling emit a faint buzz, and your feet click against the escalator steps that you quickly climb into the night.
You're above ground now, and the explosive sounds of the train are simply a faint background noise. It's fairly quiet outside (besides the pounding drum of the helicopter) and you must strain your ears to pick out the noises of your neighborhood. You hear the sound of cars cutting through the air as they zip by, and the pattering of a dogs paws as they hit the concrete, in sync with his owners clunky boots. A couplet of woman walk by you, arm in arm across the street, speaking in hushed tones; one shrieks with laughter. The vents on the side of your neighboring building are softly humming. It is mostly still, except for the whooshing of the helicopter, slowly descending into the night.
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