he other night, i went to the bar across the street. this bar and i have a love/hate relationship because the bastards that loiter outside of it at 3am on weekdays keep me up at night (it's gotten so bad that if i wake up in the middle of the night, i can tell what time it is by the volume of the ruckus outside) and yet, it's the most convenient place to go for a drink. i went there the other night to meet some already sufficiently drunk and rowdy male friends (i would have hated them if i was trying to sleep). after the thorough entertainment of watching them act like idiots and helping them hobble out of the establishment, i was about to cross the street to go back home when some gentlemen started talking to me.
I know how your hands feel over mine, and I know the calluses over your fingers, and I know the brownness of your eyes and the smallness of your mouth, and the way your lips purse together when you’re watching baseball. I know how red and puffy your face gets when you’re really exhausted, and your funny, ineloquent accent. I know the warmness of your skin and the warmness of your body. I know how it feels when your palm rests on the back of my leg, and the curve of your shoulders when you’re hunched over your desk. I know how afraid you are of getting close to me, ever since I learned how your lips feel pressed against mine, and how your nose feels pressed against mine, and how your soft, slow tongue feels pressed against mine. I know your nervous habit of running away from me when others are around and I know the tenderness of your voice, the kindness of your eyes, the quietness, the sweetness of your affection that hangs in the air—like steam from a hot shower—when we are alone in a room.
Daily Drop Cap by Jessica Hische
ominant, daring, hardly domesticated, indicatively dusky, distant dalliance, annual denouement, darling December | |
though it's still not quite a part of the mainstream, the ebook threatens to flip the business model for book publishing on its head. the internet has made it even more complicated, and has brought up the question that the journalism industry, torn between online and paper versions, with has been riddled with for years now: how to monetize?
At sunset I sit on my fire escape, reading and drinking a glass of wine. I love to sit here and look up and down the street. To my right, I can see pretty far past Little Italy into Chinatown. Left, I can almost see the Chrysler building, if I lean over a little bit. The scent of pizza wafts up, four stories high, to where I’m sitting. The smell is a familiar tease now; I’m as accustomed to it as I am to the smell of dog piss (though one is no doubt more appealing than the other). People pass under me in small groups, an occasional singing bicyclist zips past, but it’s quiet, mostly. Fall isn’t here yet, no. The trees are just barely tipped yellow; the breeze is only mild. I still see flip-flopped pedestrians walking their dogs. Kids still run around in the park without their coats. And—perhaps my most compelling piece of evidence—there aren’t any couples out. I watch the sun fall over trees and behind me. It feels like a dream. It was, once.
Today, my yoga instructor put us into Tree Pose (I guess she was feeling ambitious). As we struggled to get onto one foot and raise our hands over our heads, she said, “Feel for soft ground. You can always find your balance not from strength, but from soft ground.” Easier said than done, I thought. What the hell is “soft ground,” anyway? All I know in this town is hard: how to walk hard, work hard, be hard. I love that about this place. And that, I guess, was her point. In this Manhattan bubble, where we’re on go until our heads hit the pillow (note: I started to sleep so much better when I moved here), it’s easy to stay stimulated, occupied, elastic, stretching and stretching. Being as excitable and impatient as I am, the energy is intoxicating.
As it gets darker, the bars start to light up. Laughter gets louder from the dives across the street. The sound of after-work drinkers, pre-dinner cocktailers, or extra-early nightcappers—who will no doubt wake me hours from now—mixes with sirens. But for now, they’re just part of the hum of this city, tuning.
These evenings on my fire escape make up my foundation. This is where I find balance and peace above the horns and cries and calls of the city. This is why I love this place: I’m four stories up, and I’m on soft ground.
