Sun Stroke

It is difficult now to remember how it was. It is difficult to remember Saturday night, running down the steps of the Met in the pouring rain, pulling our thick winter jackets closer and, frozen to the core, stopping for dinner, drinks, drying out, along the way home. It is difficult to remember winter, unending, dead, winter, chilling me to the core and dulling the gloss in my eyes. Pink and green buds explode one by one, and the air smells soft and pure. The evening so light, how was I ever not alive?

Track 12 at Penn Station and a week ended so quickly. All sped up, I stopped past the office on 42nd street and had the super fix a window that would not close. Although, in the warm breeze, it seemed a shame to close it at all.

I walked out onto the bustling street, my back straight, my eyes open, my heart smiling. I looked at the Chrysler building, glistening at the other end of the island, and it was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen.