New York Stories, Pt. 2
Moments in Time
From an East Side 19th Century Japanese Pub
I remember long ago, walking crosstown with you. We had seen something off, something like The Last Seduction, and sure, Linda Fiorentino was all bad and the soundtrack at the end — Miles Davis? Dave Brubeck? — had me swirling. But the evening had fallen and I felt lost. And then we walked as friends do, long, tall, our shadows reflecting all that we could hold.
I guess we were going home; I was only visiting and I still think of “Walking on the Moon” when I remember that night.
But now, on this night, as the four of us hover over a table of oysters, curry, ramen, and somehow deviled eggs, we speak of future legends and retirement, you and I. Our partners watch us closely, smiling (though I wouldn’t know this then) at how we are together, how we laugh, how we seem to finish each other’s thoughts as if our minds always think the same things.
Which they almost always do.
At one point I lean into you. We’ve catalogued all the high school teachers we loved and how — and yes, you are right about this — they didn’t teach us to be analytical. No, we didn’t learn to scan poetry or use any theoretical framework to dissect Whitman or Romeo and Juliet. Maybe other high school lit classes in…