"Let's go to the Met," says the man in a sing-songy sarcasm, "and lick all the banisters." His partner across the table is not amused, and continues reading the pandemic news out loud. I know I was away, but the second I land my feet are firmly planted again on these streets. The tired swaying of the A train late at night, the constant drive forward in even the neighborhood preschoolers; I woke in jetlag at three a.m. and remarked how even New York City sleeps sometimes. How quiet, how soothing. Two days ago we sat in a crammed bar like we had never lived apart and now here I am on my own again, with only concrete for company. It's a strange and wondrous life, isn't it.
The man returns from speaking with the waiter to divulge that it's his last day tomorrow -- "he's really a photographer" -- and lands a stitch in my side. Everything changes. (Like maybe you have to start paying for your coffee now.) The point is you remain.
The point is we still have the rest of our lives ahead of us. It'll gladly be wondrous, if you let it.
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