I breathe in the air. Acrid in parts, after all it’s New York City garbage air. The temperature is sweet. Cabs’ horns fill the streets with musical aggression. Walk here, don’t cut me off.
I pick up my pace. Mustn’t cry before I get home. Breathe the air. Hear the sounds. Feel that slight dirtiness against my skin as I canter down the street past the bodegas and shuttered bakeries.
It’s not the end, a colleague says. You’ll be back. We’ll work out visa issues and you’ll be back.
I rush through the open doors. Push the elevator button until it lights up a thousand times. Up, up, up. I’ve never been on such a high floor before. The suite I’m in this time gives me incredible views of Midtown. The tuna ceviche starts up come up.
I’m not drunk.
How can I explain the sadness? My bobby said once that you can’t love something you never had.
I had New York.
In 12 hours I’ll be home. The sadness of leaving Midtown behind won’t be taunting me in the face.
The tears will dry.
I had to make this decision. It was the right one.
G-d please help me come back. My heart hurts too much to be giving up.