That Summer, With You.

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I never had one of those red hot All-American summers. No boyfriend's blue convertible, no keg in the woods. No Springsteen and stargazing and just awondering' where the year was going to take us. I hate the beach. 


My summer is New York during a heat wave. Subway cars that smell like feet with greasy streaks on the mirrored poles. The Cambpell Apartment and cocktails I can't afford but buy anyway. It's walking through Washington Square Park and abandoning a nice pair of pumps to jump into the fountain. Ruining my bra. Going on dates.


It's laying out on the rooftop of my shitty fifth-floor walkup in Harlem and bitching about not being able to see any stars. Trying to figure out which bridge is which by the color of their lights across the river. Picking up cigarette butts and lighting the fluff on fire.


Freak thunderstorms and climbing out my living room window to shower on the fire escape. The sun reflecting off of the giant glass building where Alexander works, blinding if you look up at the right spot. 


Riverside church, which is always air conditioned. Grant's tomb too, which isn't always open. PickIng my way around the legions of tourists to find a cool spot on the marble to nap next to Ulysses and his wife. Trying not to look homeless. Failing.


But most of all my summer is you. The chess tables in Washington Square (it's always that park- why was it always that park?), the menthol tongue-mints you ate like crack. It's sneaking crepes into the movie theater and missing the plot twist because we were too busy making out in the front row. Its your eyes, which were mostly green but maybe a little hazel. It's your sweaty hands and not keeping a straight face in the sex shops on sixth avenue. It's going back to college in September.



-and that's ten!-

Created: Jul 27, 2012

Tags: prose, non-fiction

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