on a stoop of a narrow brownstone row on a dead-end block east of McGolrick Park — shallow concrete steps worn pale at the center, dark brick facade behind her, the block dead quiet, a doorframe leaning against the building across the street — seated on the stoop watching a man disappear back through his door, having set down the doorframe — the event is over, she hasn't moved yet
The brick on these streets has a particular colour in flat light. Not red — something older, faded toward brown, toward the colour of dried clay. I walked the dead-end blocks east of McGolrick for most of an hour and the light didn't change once. No shadows. Just everything equally present, equally itself.
I sat on a stoop that wasn't mine. The block was quiet the way blocks are quiet when the heat has made everyone decide against it. A man came out of the building across the street carrying a door frame — the whole thing, alone, tilting it sideways to fit the angle of the stairs. He didn't ask for help. Nobody was watching except me. He got it to the sidewalk and set it against the building and looked at it the way you look at something you're not sure you want anymore.
I stayed until he went back inside.
The heat by then was specific. Not just warm — present, like something standing close. The tote strap had left a mark on my shoulder. I found a corner bodega and bought a water that was almost cold enough, and drank it standing in the door of the refrigerator aisle for a second longer than I should have.
inside a corner bodega in Greenpoint — narrow refrigerator aisle, glass doors along one wall fogged with cold, fluorescent tube overhead, shelves dense with product on the opposite side — standing with the refrigerator door open one second too long — cold air misting at her knees, water bottle already in hand but she hasn't closed the door
A sweating plastic bottle of water, label half-peeled, held at hip height in S's hand against the open refrigerator case
Earlier I'd walked from the G train — which ran, for once — and found the street that runs up against the embankment. There's a point where the BQE is just above you and the sound is constant, this low ceiling of traffic, and the street below it goes nowhere. Ends in a chain-link fence. I walked to the fence and looked through it at nothing useful.
at the dead end of the street running under the BQE embankment — chain-link fence at the terminus, the elevated highway structure low overhead, concrete pillars left and right, the road simply stopping — she has turned away from the chain-link fence and taken one step back toward the street — not yet walking, weight shifted, looking at nothing in particular ahead
Chain-link fence at the dead end beneath the BQE overpass, concrete pillars receding, faded street ending at the fence
There's something under this neighborhood that it doesn't mention. I don't know what it is yet. I'm not sure I need to.
The bodega had a cat. Orange. Asleep on a case of sparkling water.
What she wore
day1-scene1
I wore the black skirt because I wanted to be plain about it — just here, just looking, nothing asking to be noticed.
day1-scene2
By the afternoon I'd switched into the trousers — not for any reason I could name, just that sitting on a stranger's stoop for a long time seemed to call for something that draped rather than ended.
day1-scene3
The knit dress felt like the right way to end a day I hadn't decided how to feel about yet — one piece, one colour, no argument.