I saw your picture and heard about you a year before I even met you. When he said you liked my writing, the one about finding familiarity abroad in Italian bars, about Manhattan and quiet pavement, I thought how good it would be if something happened between us. The friend from Sweden, blonde and open, expressive and unafraid. Then he told me you had a Persian girlfriend and how at every chance you'd say, "She's amazing." Later I got to hear you say it for myself. He still doesn't know why I hate the word amazing. It just tells me that I am not her.
You left the pizza I brought you on the bench, uneaten, saved for a homeless person -- one who wasn't Jewish like you and who could eat pork. I wish I hadn't asked for pepperoni, but cheese had seemed too plain, too cheap. What I remember is so much. The way your hair was pressed against your forehead under your clay blue hood; how you tugged on the strings as you talked to me; your lips without grooves. How I immediately felt a little awed and inferior when you so openly conversed with the doorman.
At the Plaza Hotel, you asked if you could drop in your suite before we headed up to the roof. You brought out a blanket for me. We sat down, then in the middle of talking you suddenly told me to stand up. So abruptly: "Stand up," just like that. I didn't ask why or what for, didn't even frown inquisively like I normally would've. I simply stood on that roof with you and tried not to watch you as you wrapped the blanket around me snugly, tucking corners under my arms, binding fabric around my shivering legs. I tried to still them, tried not to move. Tried to savor this, the closeness. It was as if I had discovered security for the first time.
You said my name and asked, "What do you want?" I smiled sadly, not saying anything. Just knew that what I wanted didn't matter because the reality was, I would never see you again.
I had never known how these things were supposed to go together anyway, but just this once it was okay to laugh about it. Everything since has been bits and pieces. Crinkled paper, an impromptu cab ride, hands and the fragile city that we built
that would not make it past the night.
