New York is slick, wet. Fumes rise from the sidewalk like the smoking shafts of sweat from a lathered animal. I hopped the subway yesterday. I’d forgotten how magical it can be, how magnificent it is to be crowded uncomfortably close to so many people, how spectacular the experience is if you relax in spite of the encroaching filth and take a look at the assemblage of humanity smushed up against you. That, my friends, is the most delicious sort of people watching. Not voyeuristic or illicit, just… respectfully opportunistic.
I got out at 72nd Street and Broadway, and walked the three blocks to Fairway. Fairway, for all you handy-tards out there, is a wonderful grocery store, and home of my heart. It’s where I used to flee my mother during those last two years in New York. I know, I know, I can’t even seek therapy like a normal person. I don’t mean that I’d cower by the artichokes in a clandestine attempt at escape. Rather, I’d browse the produce. I’d ogle and fondle, loose myself in the efforts of picking the right pear, with the stem end giving just so, but the body still strapping and firm. I’d let my mind wander, the only time I granted it that liberty. And it would. It would take flight; the screaming in my head would quite, and I would ponder the various properties of ingredients, contemplate combinations and enhancements, the dreaded fact of my insomnia forgotten for a moment. For just as long as I stayed within the safety of the store, within the realm of my verdant refuge, I could breathe.
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