On a quiet Saturday evening, between empty streets and setting dusk, there’s a boy who found his way on the corner of Spring street and Lafayette. You had fire in your eyes that spoke of desire. (Or that could just be your need for caffeine and my habit of over-romanticizing.) You walked in heavy on the thoughts of yesterday, the usual New Yorker fixed on the idea of what once was and high on the possibility of soon-to-be’s. I greeted you a hello. You looked up and smiled half-kind, half-forced, half a little glad the day is almost over.
“What can I get for you today?” I asked, as you reached for what I assumed to be a wallet in your back pocket. The difference, entirely between male and female.
“Just an iced red-eye.” Eyeing dollar bills stuck beneath exhaustion and payments that need to be met, you hand me a crumpled $10. When I reached for your hand in return, I noticed a staff infinitely tattooed around your wrist. A design almost every musician is familiar to. Almost every, I say, for all the ones who wish to be anyway.
“Oh wow, you have a staff. That’s great.” A remark that must have triggered and ignited a spark, “You read music?” you asked and I almost jumped at the sudden shift in our conversation, how a once cold and bitter tone from the first greeting turned around in a split second to a much warmer one.
“I do, I play when I find time.” and I could almost compare the way your eyes changed from distant to burning curiosity with the way the seasons transition from winter to fall, five times on fast forward.
“That’s really great that you know how to read it.” was what you said as I handed you the change. Your eyes locked on mine, I smile. A quick two-second stare that resonates in the air, somewhat on slow motion. I look away breaking the spell to an invisible knot that formed within that small interval, and you walk towards the bar to wait for your drink. I add the shots and hand you the coffee.
You smile and tell me to have a great day.
You walk towards the door.
You look back and you stare, and for a long while you look around
contemplating on whether or not you should stay around from the corner of my eye.
You walk back inside and sit on one of the empty seats.
There are different forms of intimacy. Sometimes it can be as vital as a look in someone's eye when you tell them something no one else knows about, and often it is in the things unsaid. In those seemingly insignificant gestures or something as small as an extra hour to spare.
