You schedule a week full of meetings, days full of no space in your mind to think, just one foot in front of the other, your bank account reels but Christmas is coming and you’ll be damned if you don’t shove some happy into your eyeballs. Even the dive bar has a tree.
He beams into the classy hotel bar a day later, orders a martini, lights up the room with casual confidence only real money can offer. Says she wanted me to come to New York and get you. Paints a life of sunshine and smiles across my eyebrows, leaves the check blank, tries to convince you that the other side of the world has manhattan vibes too, but he forgets how you adore even the dirt, even the broken, and no one puts that on a brochure. You feel a little like Judas.
Later, underneath the Christmas tree in Washington square park, the merest hint of a snowfall floats down the strung lights, everything is whisky in my veins. The life is strange and wondrous. I’m glad to remember.
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