On the Wednesday of the Thanksgiving Weekend, I was waiting in line for a fresh brew of coffee at Tatro's, located on the lower level of Grand Central Terminal, fidgeting with my phone, checking text messages, when the blind man in a plaid shirt nudged my elbow and asked, Where did she go?
I had had a long night with Harry Berman discussing Israeli politics, data meshes, and romance, drinking Petit Chablis, listening to Harry Belafonte and Sam Cooke, and had taken a yellow taxi directly to Grand Central at eight in the morning- which is to say I was exhausted, and groggy, and slightly incoherent from my hangover. We never quite acknowledged the moments when our eyes roved along each others shirts and faces and veins along our forearms, formulating clouds of mild flirtation; the ways our fingers brushed in handshakes, but there are certain emotions we acknowledge through unspoken means. And that night proved to be a multiplicity of those.
Who? I asked.
My wife. She was here a minute ago. Do you see her?
What does she look like?
Brown hair, White, hazel eyes, a long dress, with a cane. Boots, and a purple muffler.
A lady walked up to us. She told me Thanks. Marshal, I'm back -had gone to the restroom. Black hair, green eyes, glossy black skin. With a cane, boots, and a purple muffler.
Let it go, she whispered to me. It's been fourteen years.
I had had a long night with Harry Berman discussing Israeli politics, data meshes, and romance, drinking Petit Chablis, listening to Harry Belafonte and Sam Cooke, and had taken a yellow taxi directly to Grand Central at eight in the morning- which is to say I was exhausted, and groggy, and slightly incoherent from my hangover. We never quite acknowledged the moments when our eyes roved along each others shirts and faces and veins along our forearms, formulating clouds of mild flirtation; the ways our fingers brushed in handshakes, but there are certain emotions we acknowledge through unspoken means. And that night proved to be a multiplicity of those.
Who? I asked.
My wife. She was here a minute ago. Do you see her?
What does she look like?
Brown hair, White, hazel eyes, a long dress, with a cane. Boots, and a purple muffler.
A lady walked up to us. She told me Thanks. Marshal, I'm back -had gone to the restroom. Black hair, green eyes, glossy black skin. With a cane, boots, and a purple muffler.
Let it go, she whispered to me. It's been fourteen years.
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