Where There’s Smoke There’s Desire
New York, I love you, but can you do something about the smoke?
Canada is on fire; the smoke has drifted down and settled over your fragile bones. The sky is yellow and orange, and the sunset is so pretty that we know it’s wrong. It lingers above and around us as we breathe it in, glad we still have masks to keep the worst of it away.
Last night we snuck through the coffee shop on 9th Ave and down into the beautiful darkness of Bathtub Gin for a few drinks to ward away the apocalypse. While all around us patrons mumbled about the smog and the blaring phone alerts, we managed to largely avoid the world as we’re apt to do in this city that used to never sleep and now occasionally naps.
New York, if we hide in the dim light, smothering our senses in gin and whiskey, will you promise to be there when we return?
We’ve gotten good at hiding.
So slinking down into a cocktail bar on a Tuesday evening didn’t feel off. When we’re told to stay inside, this is what they mean. Stay inside, have a few drinks, don’t worry too much, and have fun.
Stare into her blue eyes and remember a white dress and soft tears. Sip your corpse reviver #2 and hope that love can blow the smoke across the river until it dissolves in the blue-gray hills of New Jersey.
But let’s get back to her blue eyes. Let’s get back to the cold drink and the dim bar. Let’s get back to breathing deep into our stomachs and guts until a different fire burns. The street is a million miles away, the skyline doesn’t matter, and even the subway is silent. Squeeze her hand, touch it to your lips, and smile like she’s the only other person in the world.
And for a moment, she is. For a moment in the din and the darkness, no matter the other conversations or the missing bartenders, it’s only her. It has to be because the rest of it is too much to hold and too hard to breathe in. It has to be because we only have right now in this very moment, and if I let it slip away without embracing it tenderly, then why did I leave the house?
New York, we fell in love in your arms, so please don’t drop us.
On the train home, we’re largely quiet. People sit with their heads down and their masks off, more able to breathe underground than above it. When nothing makes sense, our decisions border on useless. But I can feel her body next to mine, and I say a small prayer to the gods of the MTA. Whoever watches over the three trains, please whisk us home without delay or incident. Hold us in your soft belly, and we’ll try not to grumble or forget your efficacy.
On Eastern Parkway, I can’t tell if the sun has set.
The sky is still jaundiced and bright as if a storm is holding its breath. The Brooklyn Museum is solitary across the street. We step quickly, trying not to inhale as we hurry for home and the comfort of a waiting bed and a loving dog.
New York, it’s not your fault that the world is on fire. It’s not your fault we’ve spent so much time enduring and surviving.
Finally, at home, I sit staring out the window while she changes her clothes. I can smell smoke, and the dog hides her nose in a pillow. Everything is uncertain, but somehow, my old friend Fear didn’t show up tonight. If this is the apocalypse, we’re doing alright.
I pour two glasses of wine and close the shades. It’s a Tuesday night in Brooklyn, and we’re still in love.
