October. Seasons change. The dark green leaves of the birch tree outside my window begin to shrivel, flash to yellow. I wake up before dawn to close my window. Still we brave the inevitable end of warm air and sit in the bar's backyard, smoking, our slushee margaritas forming icicles along the edge of the glass.
The train home was almost empty as it climbed the Williamsburg bridge. A man sat across from me, old, disheveled, wearing New York Mets pajamas. His hand was bandaged and the id wristband on his arm made me think he'd escaped from a hospital. He looked so kind, in his ragged, curly beard, and he smiled as he mumbled something to himself; I couldn't help but feel a smile spread on my own face. We began our descent into the darkness underground, and I saw Manhattan glitter and welcome me home.
I dreamed in color last night. Vibrant, sparkling, beautiful color, a dream that began with travel and ended in song. October. I will make a friend of you, yet.
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