The air underneath the great metropolis is warm, stale, you had forgotten how the summer subways creep under your skin. Your mask your lips, sticky with color, sticky with anticipation. She says good for you with fear in her voice and you want to explain that you do this because you have to. Any semblance of want has long since escaped your vocabulary. A pandemic gives, but a pending mostly takes away.
They call from below your window and stare up with expectant faces: the joy of neighbors. You know, I stayed in the neighborhood and still somehow it looks entirely different from this side of the numbered avenues. Do you know when I was young, I once dreamed to live in the place they called Alphabet City, even though it was said you shouldn’t venture there at night. In the windowed nook off Avenue B, I sleep better than I have in years.
It’s hard to know what to do when your dreams come true.
But you do it anyway.
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