But I feel you could.
Lincoln Center five minutes after curtain and the plaza clears quickly, the fountain left to its own steep rhythm. The security guard tries to woo me with talk of his businesses, and I have nowhere to go but encouragement. Bygones. When we finally stand there on the second ring, hearing the soft tap tap of pointe shoes patting across the stage floor, aren't you immediately removed from any ennui? Taut bodies worn into the tools of their trade, the tulles of their trade, they leap and bend and you don't realize until the final beat that you were holding your breath this entire time, gasping into your applause and smiling in the dark. You immerse yourself into art lately, you cannot get enough, like a newborn in appreciation, like you didn't grow up at the stage, it means something different now because you try to see their dedication with other glasses than the ones you've been told to wear for so long.
I look forward to trying things and failing, you hear yourself say and know it's true mostly as a hypothetical, but it seems a promising start. We order another pitcher of sangria and laugh into the Queens Friday night, but the silent spaces between are deadly serious, and we let them. The city has been covered in a thick mist all day, you can still cut the humidity with a knife.
On the subway home, I know it again. I love this city more than I knew I could love anything. It knows me, it knows me, and still it lets me move through its innards perpetually.
If you needed saving, what other place could do it but this?
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