By the time we make our way out the Holland Tunnel, it has begun to drizzle: New Jersey's finest. You approach the destination in a sort of breathless anticipation, unsure of if there's anything to worry about. Usually all that needs worrying about is you.
By the end of the night - hurrying home to walk the dog - you are more questions than answers, although with more answers than you had before leaving the island. Some people move in on you like snow melt: slowly, thoroughly, delightfully, even before you were aware you were thawing. You decide maybe you can carry the questions with you for a while, yet. Later, in the witching hour, you lie awake and listen to the steady breaths of Chelsea walkups, to the unsteady breaths of your own wary insides. Maybe I can carry the questions with me for a while, yet, you repeat to yourself.
The sleep that follows is the best you've had in weeks.
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