[Autobiographical: friendly fire?]
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Greenwich Village is cold today, colder than one would expect in late August. The sky hangs heavy and lethargic over the city, and the wind that whipped the air from our lungs on the ferry hasn’t left us yet. Sleeves wrap around wrists, hands tremble in pockets, the fabric of our jackets and jeans shudder. Above us, pigeons roost close together in the gnarled branches of city-stunted trees, and occasionally hop closer to inspect this strange, rag-tag group of humans wandering the streets.
She’s fallen behind the group, wincing as new sneakers scrape and irritate soft skin. Five hours, they’ve been walking now; five hours in the cold. Five hours, and it still feels like they’re on the ferry; every time she looks at him, the cement sways beneath her, and when their eyes connect for brief moments, brief smiles, her stomach lurches.
They stop down a relatively quiet street, though the roar of traffic and human activity is still near enough to remind them that they aren’t hidden away in some secret universe all their own. The tour guide, red umbrella held up like a pennant, is talking about the building nearby.
With the rest of the group, she makes her way through an incongruous, white stucco arch; its rough edges are softened by an abundance of climbing flora, vibrantly green against the pallid concrete and red brick nearby. This little street, she thinks, isn’t New York City – the treacherously uneven cobblestone street, the vaguely Dutch faces the houses present, the twisting vines reaching for the cleaner air above the roofs –
“It’s beautiful,” she breathes, the pain in her feet forgotten. He catches her eye as she turns in a slow circle to absorb the unexpected elegance of this place, and after a moment in which the world cracks in two and then realigns, they smile. He loves the architecture even more than she does, this quiet boy with an artist’s hands; she can see it gleaming there, a glow far more subtle than that flush the wind has summoned to his cheeks.
Later, on the ferry again, they watch side by side as the New York skyline subsides into a hazy memory, a postcard vista; she before, he behind, their hands clutching the cold metal of the railing a careful distance apart. She glances over her shoulder; his eyes are there, ready to meet hers, and she, too, glows. Eaves and shoulders – they’re the same thing, aren’t they?
She leans back against him so gently, so tentatively, the motion an unspoken question; he finds he enjoys the warmth she exudes, and moves his hand closer to hers on the balustrade.
