City

The KGB bar was barely lit (as usual) tonight. The first reader opened one of the heavy curtains and I noticed the sky was misty but light. Spring…finally. Four readers read four quirky pieces for the Istanbul Literary Review, funny things were said. When I walked down Fourth Street, the mist made colors pop out everywhere and quieted things. In front of me, a beautiful blond couple spoke Spanish. She was dressed in red: red trench coat, red pants, red patent leather shoes. He was dressed completely in black except for a red purse slung over his shoulders, her purse I presumed. On Great Jones Street, I passed a dance studio where one of my favorite teachers made me leap across the room on a top floor. There is no way of knowing from the outside that the building is filled floor after floor of empty white rooms and sprung wood lined with ballet barres and mirrors. An open window spills high above me spills white light into the dense, wet air.

On Lafayette, restaurants filled with people spill energy onto the walk. I pass, hearing a rumble of talking but no words. Menus flash in hands. A man stepped out of the mist just before I got on the train, hitting me up for cash. I kept walking, feeling guilty. Another man dressed immaculately in white appeared, “Sallam aleykum,” he said, wearily. He lowered himself down, crouched in the corner, and waited for my reaction.