The buildings stand tall and solitary, in a solemn queue awaiting the sun that knights them with a ring of burning gold, glory for a minute and then it’s gone, the buildings are dim again. But when it gets really dark, they’re going to light up from within.
I’m starting to like New York. The city makes me lonely but it’s the romantic loneliness, the kind that could inspire prose, poetry and graffiti. The lady with the red shoes, the boy with the incessant desire to write mediocre short stories and the fat, bearded man who turned into a son-of-a-bitch every time he eats a banana, the rats scampering along the dirty train tracks, the thousands of hands that touch a metal railing in the subway, leaving imprints of grease, germs, baby powder, blue lint from gloves, sweat and sadness. The red-eyed man who was going home to dirty dishes and a loving wife too drunk to remember that she loves him.
I like how people here carry around paperbacks. Guys just need to be wearing glasses, mismatched clothes and carrying a book to look interesting. For me, that is.
The sun moves quickly when it’s getting closer to the time she needs to leave for home, but in her rush, she leaves behind little bits and pieces of her. And then long after she disappears in a silent explosion of flame, the rays left behind slowly move after her, and finally, the colors are gone. Clouds can be clingy though, they hold on to the saturated hues of purple, pink, orange and yellow and refuse to let them follow the sun.
“Let us go, we need to be with her,” they tell the clouds gently, but nobody wants the warmth to leave…but of course it has to, and slowly the colors slip away and the sky is just plain old blue, brooding at being left alone, darkening as the minutes tick away.