book. peace. piece of book.

IMG_5263The night he leaves, again, she departs from the primary lights of Times Square. Through the theatre district, past faces of strangers who make livings dancing on stage; and she returns to the east side.

On the east side, there’s a sushi restaurant she used to eat at, when she lived in Tudor City – next to the United Nations. She liked that apartment, eighteen stories up. Waking up on a sunny morning to a wavy row of flags that somehow felt peaceful.

Sometimes when she looked down at the bold sails which historically expressed unity, it didn’t matter where governments evolved. Besides, she never felt remotely close to anyone or thing except him, but she was romanticized by the idea of there only being one.

She reaches third avenue and the midtown population shifts. Her usual flamboyant basement becomes a conservative mix of college students, politicians, their parents and children.

She looks down.

The waitresses at the restaurant recognize her. The hostess’s face softens immediately on eye contact.


The restaurant is packed, but her most preferred corner is free. Where the bench seat forms an L and you can see the whole room. “Only you?” The stools at the sushi bar are sparsely populated. “Your table!”

She sinks into her favorite seat to eavesdrop, like she did all the nights alone before he arrived.

She leans to the right and dips herself into the stories and lives of an unknowing couple. A place where she only needs to be seen, never heard. She’s lived enough years to embrace silence.

The couple seems to feel her and returns warm smiles…

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