Complicit

Stand on the Bowery, he says under his breath. If the cops come, you tell me right away, I stop. We giggle and shake our heads, disperse to our lookouts, remain on the line, hear paint cans shaking on the other end. Soon, the masterpiece appears. All it says is marry me.

He speaks of the first trembling moments. Of how he didn't appreciate the city's rowdy artists, of the busy fumes of Second Avenue traffic, of strange Russian vodka that made his southern head spin. Now, here he was, in love with a girl who saw only magic in the messy city, who had made him move into the thick of it, who would walk down this street on a chilly November night and see her name spray painted on a shop gate: here they were, and Everything was yet to come. The artwork was secondary, but it was there.

We giggled our departures into the mild evening. I rushed home to my to do lists, short sweet moments still lilting on my lips. New York gives you fairy tales in the midst of its grime.

All you have to do is see them.