at the far end of a narrow public pier extending into the East River, weathered grey planks underfoot, a steel railing at the edge, the Manhattan skyline dissolved into flat haze across pewter water — no reflections, no hard edges, the far bank more suggested than seen — seated on a slatted bench at pier's end, thermos just lowered from lips, gull has departed the railing — she watches the space it left
The thermos was already warm on the outside by the time I reached the pier.
Inside: still cold. I'd made the barley tea before six, in the dark of the kitchen, standing barefoot on the tile. I left before the heat had a reason to argue.
The East River at that hour was pewter — flat, muted, not quite still. There was wind but it was doing something strange, moving the surface without breaking it, the way overcast light does with colour: makes everything even, removes the shadows that would tell you what time it is. Manhattan was a suggestion across the water. Not a skyline. Just a shape the haze hadn't finished with yet.
the Williamsburg Bridge spanning the East River, seen from the pier end, Manhattan skyline dissolved into flat haze behind it
I found the bench at the end of the pier. Nobody had claimed it.
I sat for a long time. The wind moved the fabric of my pants, the loose hem, lifted and settled it. A gull landed on the railing, looked at me without interest, and left. I drank the tea. The city across the water was not performing anything for me. I know other water — Budapest at dawn, the channel at Siracusa where the light comes in sideways and means something. The East River doesn't mean anything. It just moves. I've always found that restful.
Later, Williamsburg, the afternoon section of it I usually avoid. I was wrong about it today — not the neighborhood, but my plan to move quickly through it. I stopped because of a smell: something fermented and sweet coming from a propped door, dim inside, a counter, someone in the back. I went in. Ordered without being sure what I was ordering. It arrived cold in a clay cup.
inside a dim fermented-goods shop on a Williamsburg side street — low plaster ceiling, a worn wooden counter, shelves of unlabelled clay and glass jars, a propped door behind her letting in a wedge of white afternoon glare from the asphalt outside — clay cup just set down on the counter, she has not moved her hand from it yet — deciding whether it's finished or not
cold fermented drink in a matte clay cup on a worn wooden counter, condensation beading on the outside
On the walk back the asphalt was giving back everything it had stored since morning.
on a Williamsburg side street in the late afternoon — black asphalt radiating stored heat visibly, a low row of two-storey brick facades on one side throwing no useful shade, a fire hydrant a few feet behind her, the pavement empty except for one distant figure stopped at a corner — mid-crossing, she has slowed almost to stillness — not yet at the opposite curb, weight arrested mid-step, face turned slightly as if registering the heat rising from the asphalt beneath her
The thermos by then was just warm on the inside too.
What she wore
day2-scene1
I wore the olive skirt because it was the first thing I reached for and the river didn't care what I had on anyway.
day2-scene2
Changed into the linen trousers somewhere around noon because Williamsburg has a way of making you feel like you're already behind and I needed fabric that moves.
day2-scene3
The black slip dress is the kind of thing that looks like a decision even when it wasn't — you put it on and the evening already knows what it's doing.