The neighbors didn’t know if they loved or hated what they were hearing.
But they definitely heard. Because the two of us weren’t quiet.
Like, when I exhaled, the bed frame rattled. And when he whispered, the floor vibrated.
And the entire time, we smoked and drank espresso. There was nothing in the refrigerator, except for dark chocolate (90%!) and champagne. I always kept a fresh glass of water on the night table, the one on my side of the bed.
My spine opened wider every time I twisted toward him.
Everyone talked about us while we spoke Italian to each other; within the August heat of a New York City sun, in the center of midtown Manhattan – not far from Grand Central station – underneath a cloudless sky.
We would speak to each other with our lips touching, a low song that no one else had ever sang to me before.
I only wore dresses. Not very much makeup. Only Chanel lipstick that he picked out for me, and which didn’t usually work out. I ordinarily kissed it off on the first napkin to reach me during one of our days spent walking the city together – before his tongue was in my mouth again.
We talked about family and architecture and traveling, mostly. Sometimes orchestra. Sometimes poetry… (excerpt)
ex·cerpt | noun
1. a short extract from a piece of music or writing.
I bumped my head the night we met and never saw things the same way again.
The second day I saw him, we walked down a boardwalk along a salt-scented Brooklyn coastline. He wore sweatpants and a baseball hat and we talked about him being first generation and me having left for a decade. We comment on the different shades of green blossoms in each other’s eyes. He kisses me at Cony Island, on the subway and all other kinds of pubic places. Continue reading
I’m on the corner of 44th Street and 3rd Avenue at 8 in the morning, when midtown is just as hopping as the meat packing district at 4am. Every creed and color pours up and down avenues, in and out of transport hubs. There’s so many of us, it’s like no one even notices each other.
We kiss on the cheek in the amicable style we’re each trying to adjust to. This is what it means to make friends with someone you used to fuck. I’m 37 years old, I haven’t done this to date. I’m still uncertain that I’m going to start now.
There’s something beautiful to me about standing in the center of Manhattan wearing sweatpants I slept in with messy bed hair. You never know where life will take you.
The cold February prick of winter stings my cheeks as I turn to walk home. I try to be a good host and always escort guests to their destination. That’s part of why I love living in my neighborhood, there’s 24-hour transportation that can literally get you anywhere in the world. That’s how I ended up living in Australia for ten years.
I originally left New York City for love and I came back because of heartbreak. Both times I was saved, for different reasons. There was at least one solid lesson that came of it all, anyways; your heart only breaks once.
FollowMeToNYC is a creative processing ground which expresses individual ideas that often change with the tides. Naturally, these ideas do not reflect those of any of my employers, or anyone else you might see me wandering down the street with one day.