A Return of Sorts

 It wasn't their city.

He remembered an argument over a phone when he was soaking in a tub in the Plaza...a long ago debate about actually getting together...her voice on the phone tin-like and thin...he stayed in the tub as the water grew cold.  He hated arguing with her.

She was unlocked in the low country...she was sea breezes and open windows in a Spring morning when the dew is drying and the sun is just barely a warmth.

He was a brick alley.  But he loved sunsets.

She was the first cool feeling of a wave over your feet in the ocean...the sand warm, the shells pin-pricking their way under the soft heel and the foamy wash a bit of a chilling surprise...that then withdrew only to do it again seconds later.  She would likely argue that one should be aware that the ocean was sometimes cold and waves literally happened in waves...a recurring tug between gravity, the moon and tides.

She was almost always right.

But God did he want New York to be theirs...cab rides colliding down darkened streets, stolen kisses in darkened doorways, a vibe, an energy...when the rest of the world (the southern world, her world) was putting on pajamas and socks New York was putting on lipstick and stepping out.  The music in certain bars, the dollars slipped into doorman's hands, the restaurants with 10pm reservations...he so wanted that.  He wanted to be in a suit, a tie...and by night's end he wanted his tie in her purse and her lipstick on him.

But it never happened.

She wanted porches and swings, cobbler and tea.  Thunderstorms you could see coming.  The crickets and the peeping frogs.  The quiet after a sunset. The smell of rain.  It's not like he relished the sirens and the horns, the pungent trash bins and neon...it was the pulse that he wanted.  Her pulse to match it.  And she didn't.

The quiet of a New York city morning...gray sunlight.  He wanted to wake with her in a bed of black and whites.  Coffee in proper porcelain.  She was content in a morning with a rooster and a cup from a camping collection.  

He pondered his dilemma...the eventuality as he felt it.  He didn't disagree as much as want to add her as an ingredient into his favorite.

He loved the sound of his footsteps in the dark in a night...she loved the way the grass felt on her bare feet.

He was going back to the city...and as he prepared he took only his best clothing...his favorite dress shirts, his cologne, his polished shoes and his collar stays.  He touched the material, felt the heft.

He thought of her love of flowers.  

He remembered a time when they were drinking bourbon in an evening...fireflies were out as it must have been early summer...her legs were folded under her.  The orange of the twilight had dissipated...they were in a bit of shadows...he heard the ice molting in her glass...the air was still and it was quiet...like in an empty church.  It kind of struck him...he remembered a slight kiss and a murmur. He remembered a moon.

He finished packing for his trip to New York. He thought about how it wasn't their city.  

He zipped the zippers close.