She said that she was not afraid of repetition the way that I was, and I tried to disagree.  But we’d been through that before, and we’d be through it again, at least one more time before the night was over.  This was a day that started with me in a taxi, me in a suit, me getting into a taxi to take me to my five-star New York hotel, where I would walk in, in my suit.  The brand matters of course, but not enough to mention.  It matters enough to mention that it’s not important to mention.  There are details in the cracks between words, just as there are cracks in the details in a sidewalk, and this day has sidewalks.

I am in a suit getting out of a taxi, looking for the keycard for my hotel.  I can’t remember if I’ve already checked in, because it feels like another day.  It might be the same day, I can’t say for sure.  I know that there are people waiting for me inside, or outside, and I know that there is a breakfast waiting for me, and it will probably be one of the best meals of my life, and somewhere toward the end of the meal, she is going to tell me about repetition.  There is nothing to worry over in any of this, there are no lost details in any of this, but I keep losing the thread, and that’s how the days go by, usually.  It doesn’t matter that I have not even thought about the edges of her nose, and the way her nostrils flare out when she is starting to remember another new story.

I am standing outside a taxi cab, wearing a suit that is an important brand, and I am holding her hand apparently, and we are about to get into or out of something.  It’s very likely that we are leaving, either the hotel or the taxi, to get into the other thing, the hotel or taxi.  She is considering that she really wants to tell me about what she saw the night before, that it had already started to change her life.  Her nostrils are starting to flare, and she takes a breath, anticipating a conversation about a repetition that she would very much like to continue.

New York Stories is a post from: Cool Comment