Coming and Going
“Is that the Golden Gate Bridge?” I ask the cab driver.
“That's the Brooklyn Bridge. The Golden Gate Bridge is in San Francisco.”
A band of winos stands in front of what will be my apartment as I get out of the taxi. As I weave through their animated gathering, the oldest one calls after me, “Hey, man, you just stepped in my shit.”
The notion I'll fall for that makes me smile. But once I enter the hallway, leaving the hobos in the cold September air, I can't resist looking down on my boot.
I spend the next half an hour cleansing my shoes in a puddle, thinking dark thougths.
The avuncular goodbye kiss takes longer than expected as she turns her cheek away and our lips touch. I don't know what it is that won't allow us to stop. But it's better than love.
I stand in front of my Greenwich village apartment, a suitcase by my side.
A guy in a white t-shirt walks up to me.
“You live here?”
“I just got here.”
“And I'm leaving.”
words: Jónas Knútsson, Iceland (more)
image: Jeff Crouch, Texas (more)