The teenage boy in the townhouse next door comes home, 3 am he must be drunk. He turns on the kitchen light, 11 foot ceilings, the light floods the courtyard and makes a strange play across the yellowing birch leaves outside my window. He empties the contents of a huge tub from the fridge on a plate, pours a glass of chocolate milk, turns the light off as he leaves the room. The courtyard blackens again, dark rustling silhouettes and angular black buildings tower against the clouded gray skies. Overcast, autumn, it's mild as a summer night, you didn't wear a jacket out and you were fine. They didn't want to leave you in the street but don't they know that short stairway under the street is familiar to you everywhere in the city, don't they know the steady rumbling of subway trains is your best lullaby home? The F train rolls slowly down its decline, first just a drop of light in the distance, then a sliver, then a steady beacon, don't they know it'll roll you straight to west 4th street and you can walk the rest of the way blindfolded, lord knows you've done it enough.
The city looks so still from back here when all the lights are off. Wailing cats are the only sound, even the sirens have gone home now. He asks you if it was all that you hoped and you don't know the right words for it was better than I could have dreamed. It's no different than before, nor are you. But that's the point.
It was never broken.
There was nothing to fix.
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