I breathe in New York City again as a lover. I walk down town as a dreamer who’s been awoken. I talk to New York as a believer. I take the New York subway as one who’s got a destination. This is home baby. This is home.
I popped in my seat and the cab driver cursed the driver in front of him for not helping his customer, a young girl with luggage, like myself. “That’s just rude, you know?” he said to me with an accent I didn’t recognize. “Yes. Thank you for helping me.” I wanted to make sure he knew I appreciated that he didn’t leave me stranded on the side of Penn Station, awkwardly managing two suitcases, a laptop bag and a purse. When he dropped me off in front of my dorm apartment, he got out of his car and handed me my bags from the trunk. I gave him a five dollar bill and thanked him.
I was home again, back on Lafayette street and China Town. My apartment smelled new. It was bigger, high ceilings and large windows in the kitchen. I was happy. I was going to have a big smile on my face. That night, Becca and I raised our glasses to our New York, our beautiful lover. It was going to be a sweet love-affair.