Another story I wrote...

The sunflower

The sunlight hits her shoulder as she sits on the plane, warming
cashmere against her skin. She looks out the window. Glaciers.
Memories. Nothing. She pokes at her over-priced airplane meal. A dry
unpleasant sandwich from the deli with wilted lettuce. Maybe it will
be brighter there, she promises herself. Repeating the words to
herself whenever her breath shortens, whenever her shoulders cramp, or
her mind races. Maybe it will be brighter there.

Soon everything old will blur, she knows it. The moments, days, hours
stuck in neat order in her mind, like a library of archived picture
records, will scramble, the edges of the pages becoming worn, torn.
The page numbers, blurred. The entries, ripped from the binding of the
books unevenly. With only titles and topics remaining, and the day to
day pains she is running so far from, will simply become a decade of
tax records in a box. Receipts. A few post cards, a few important
business cards and phone numbers and addresses scribbled on envelopes
and sticky notes.

She breathes a sigh of relief, comforting herself with this. Just a
box of tax records. And this pain that stabs her heart continually,
that fogs her mind, that blurs her bright intentions into clouds of
thick gray smog impossible to see through, that pain will not follow
her for long. It will become lost as she stumbles down new paths,
wearing new high heels that click along sidewalks she's never before
stepped on, that lead to places she's never heard the name of. And in
the sea, the wave of newness that will soon crash on her -- new
buildings and rooms and names, she will struggle to kick her legs to
tread water to stay afloat, and she'll completely forget the horrors
that took place before. Liking being stuck on a torturous ship, on the
worlds longest terrible cruise ship vacation, and then falling into
icy water below, blurring all memories of before.

This is her only hope. That her new shoes will find their place among
the solid ground of new sidewalks. That there will be someplace safe
for her here, where she can sink her toes into sand. Where her body
will feel as strong as a seed sprouted into a stalk int he soil,
growing up proudly, so strong in nature, unstoppable as a sunflower,
easily opening yellow bright leaves as clear as the sun. So bright
that gardeners and passerbyers have to squint their eyes to simply
take a look, brightness like the sun, causing eyes to water.

Until then, she sits on the plane waiting. Watching glaciers as sun
warms her hot cashmere covered shoulder. She is so still in her seat,
staring at wilted lettuce, imagining the color of yellow that she will
become. Wondering how it will feel when this stabbing feeling is gone
for good. Will she remember it and all of it's pain, as she does now,
each page carefully recorded in her fresh mind -- or will it become
completely forgotten, as painful memories often are, only to be
recalled when a phrase or an unusual object jogs her mind to present
her with a short jolt of a jarring memory for a few seconds, that she
can easily smile at wisely for a moment, before moving on to what she
was doing. With a grateful wrinkle to her cheeks as she remembers that
now, now things are so much brighter. Her sunflower future, gleaming
like gold.

She closes her eyes and hopes, as the plane touches down, as the sun
goes behind a cloud for now. As her new shoes touch the first ground
as she steps off the plane with her suitcase, ready to become planted
in someplace she's never seen before. With a deep breath, she falls
into yellow sunlight, even though it's a cold, cloudy glacier-colored
day. Her grateful eyes gleam a golden, vibrant color as she disappears
into the bright white light of glaring winter.

Winter is long

After 2 years I finally realized that it's winter a lot here. People don't go out as much on snowy days, making the city a bit boring -- there, I said it. Criticism of NYC! It may be the first I've said, which is predictable, as they say after a couple of years that glistening glamour seems to wear off of the pretty buildings and you see them in the light of day. And I still love it.

A great new little coffee shop opened up in the Lower East Side a block from me. People sometimes speak Italian there -- I guess the owners must be Italian, as I've heard them speak it too. Interestingly, Italian is one language I've almost never heard in the city. A lot of Chinese, Russian, German, Spanish, but not Italian. Not sure why.

Anyway, this interesting couple was there. I elaborated on their conversation, as I could only hear a few words they said. But from the body language, this is what I imagined happened. Took a break from working to write this little short story. And by the way, I noticed a guy sketching me on the subway the other day. So I guess that's another great thing about NYC. We can practice our art by using each other.

Short Story

The End

In this light yellow coffee shop with hand-written coffee menus and flour-less cupcakes, he waits anxiously for her. Pacing. Sitting. Staring at the table. She arrives, tall, proud, carrying herself like a queen. She’s angry, but intent on appearing as controlled as possible, so she throws her coat onto the back of the too-short chair so it drapes down onto the floor, fabric falling like a cape or ball gown, making her look regal like a queen, as she examines him, wondering if it should be “off with his head.” Or not.

Staring at her computer, her eyes lazily pull up only after he’s pleaded for some time. She looks like a librarian unhappy to have another patron asking yet another research question. I wonder why her email is so important.

He stares at her continually as she ignores him, enjoying the feeling of him scurrying around her feet.

He’s the type who never says how he feels, ever. Until things completely fall apart and he suddenly realizes. He smells baby powder, he sees the folded skin of his baby. Light gleaming in his future wife’s eyes as they paint the kitchen. As they stare at horizon lines and see all that is possible. Smelling evergreens and hiking with no reason to stop. Nothing stopping anything, natural as water falls rushing fast and easily. But sadly, he doesn’t realize this -- ever -- until it’s over. Until she’s written enough sad stories in her mind, and discussed situations with counselors and friends and her mother, until the answer, the only good answer is to leave -- for good.

That’s exactly the moment, he senses it, when he insists on going to the coffee shop. And he spills some feelings, a few, enough to make her wonder. But not enough to make her stay.

“I was upset about that,” she mumbles, monotone, half-looking at him. His eyes, open, wide and scared, are intensely looking at her face, like she’s holding his hand on the edge of a cliff, and he’s unsure if she will let go. His focused eyes are intent on winning her back. He says nice words, or tries to.

“Don’t you dare bring that up,” she says half-interestedly. Her reactions lacking the intensity of before, when she used to scream into the rain after him or throw her hands in the air before slamming the door and falling to the floor in a heap of misery. When he knew she cared. When she didn’t want her dreams of gorgeous-colored-light hitting their bedroom walls to be gone for good. When she didn’t want “what-could-be,” to be ripped away. But it has been, it was, and it never will be to her again.

They continue to discuss, her laptop propped between them. Her words grow louder from an exhausted monotone, to more intense, angry, but still hushed, still tired. She reaches across the laptop and almost touches her arm, wanting to shake him, to get a final reaction, but then withdraws her hand back.

Straightening the laptop screen back to 90 degrees, putting her hands in her lap, giving up. They’ll continue to talk, for now, but something is gone that will never be back. He knows it. She gets up to leave.

And he’s never wanted a woman as much as when she walks out the door. Such a sad but beautiful silhouette. Nothing so powerful as her leaving for good, her coat blurring into the sky until the edges are gone and she is far away. But she knows, if she were to ever come back, he’ll be gone. And so there is no point to ever come back.

So she takes her dreams of gleaming colored light on the wall and her imaginings with her. He keeps the smell of baby powder, and the way he knows his future wife’s eyes will look as light hits them as she smiles. They got up and left a long time ago, walking opposite ways on the sidewalk. Maybe to pass each other at the grocery store, maybe a nod, maybe not. Maybe a half-smile or an awkward look away. It ends.

Stuck in subway turn-style

After two years, nothing makes you feel like a tourist like having any sort of problems in the subway.

The sign of a true new yorker is someone who correctly swipes their metro card through the slot at a moderate pace, with a steady hand, which enables walking through the turn-style the first time (I've got this down). Otherwise, the people behind you will sigh loudly and walk to another turn-style the minute they hear the "beeep" which means "you did it wrooong! Do it againnn!"

So I'm aware of the importance of not messing up subway-related things.

Now, two years later, I make a big mistake, which makes me feel new again, like a New York Virgin. Madonna is now playing in my mind...

Unlike the normal waist-high turn-styles, there are also push-through metal stand-up ones. The swipey thing is the same, but you have to be sure to push the stand-up turnstyle at the right moment, or it won't let you through. It's maybe a second after you swipe.

Anyway, my boyfriend does this very sweet thing of swiping me into the subway (since he has an unlimited metro card and I buy the $20 ones).

We say goodbye and being the good boyfriend swipes me in. But somehow (maybe I was tired?) my ballet flat gets stuck in the turn-style, holding my foot against the metal as it rotates past, scraping off the skin on the back of my heel, and finally, after getting my foot free, sending my ballet flat flying maybe 5 feet in front of me, into the oncoming herd of rush hour footraffic.

Great.

So I had to try to not wear shoes for 3 days so it could heal, since the pressure was painful.

So watch out for getting your shoes caught in the big stand-up metal subway turn-styles. Nothing makes you feel like a tourist or a newbie like having problems with the subway though, and I'm grateful for the flashback.