As we float towards autumn I can’t help but be reminded of that feeling of being newly in love. The whole world is so beautiful, everything a delight. Winter snow feels like warm summer nights; every outing precious and magical. Even every second you spend alone is surging and overflowing with anticipation, for that next time you meet.
It’s like that night she was in your car, that old 95 Mitsubishi, driving up through the hills with the windows down and the radio way up, and you pretended to sing along to punk rock songs you didn’t know just to impress her. And maybe it worked, because she didn’t mind one bit when you put your hand on her thigh; you even thought you could see her blushing and trying to hide it. Or maybe you were still too shy to touch her but she gave you that look, when you dropped her off, that smile both happy and not really innocent, and you told yourself next time you shouldn’t be so shy.
No, I’m not dating anyone. I’m just back in Manhattan, that’s all.
