I shoved off the covers and set my feet down on the padded beige of the carpet. Still completely unfamiliar with my surroundings, I shuffled forward towards my estimation of the hall. My hands were out in front of me, and I couldn’t see much except for the glow of the million other lives that shone in the night through highrise windows. As I slowly, carefully felt my way in the dark for the bend into the kitchenette, a smidge of movement caught my eye. Turning quickly towards the spread of large glass window, I blinked. There, floating slowly past the 38th floor, was a knot of yellow balloons. Quietly, it rose through the night, up into the height of the stars. I filled a glass with water from the tap, sipped a few sips, and went to bed.
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Today was a day of days – the bread for a summer sandwich (If only because it marks the most official of the many beginnings). The things that filled it: four free hardcover books, one lovely (if slightly fluster inducing lunch), the sound of packing tape being unrolled, 1001 introductions that left me with a desert dry mouth and aching cheeks, a sad story about a father, the B train, a zoo of a grocery store, ginger carrot soup, diamonds in windows, shoe that caused a bloody heel, a mini subway map that I hid in the palm of my hand so as not to appear touristy, an endless city.
If I could plan my dreams (or at least the first scenes of them,) I should like my next one to begin with the baking of bagels and swing of a baseball bat in central park. The mention of which reminds me: I intend to find the center of central.
