A Joke, I Suppose

We sat on the Brooklyn rooftop, counting our dollars, and just when we'd closed the tab, the storm came. We'd seen the lightning approaching, heard the rumors that Manhattan was already drenched, and we planned our escape to the nearest beer hall. The torrent, when it finally came, drenched our open-toed shoes, our meticulously crafted hairdos, our newly acquired cameras, but we were grateful for the supposed break in motionless air and hundred-percent humidity. An hour later, in another smoky patio, we concluded that the tropical climate would not be discouraged so easily.
Our group was immense, so many people speaking my own language that I forgot, for a while, where I was. But when she asked Do you just get used to it?, I said No. I never get over the magic of calling this home.
I jumped out of the cab at Bleecker Street and skipped the last few steps to my door. When we say goodbye to these friends in a few days, when they return to their Normal lives and New York is just a memory of a Thing they did, we will still be here. I will still be here, calling this place home.
The best thing about leaving this place, I told him, is knowing I'll be coming back.