Hell Gate Bridge arch against grey-blue early morning sky, East River moving fast and tin-colored beneath it
I was at the park before six-thirty. The Hell Gate Bridge was making its shape against the grey-blue that was still deciding whether to be morning. The water underneath moved fast and the color of old tin. That speed always looks cold regardless of what the temperature actually is.
I wore the zip-up because the park was still cold before the sun decided what it was doing. The path was empty except for one man running with the specific determination of someone who has stopped finding it interesting.
I stood at the waterline longer than I meant to. The bridge against the sky is the angle I come back to. It doesn't try to be beautiful and is anyway.
on the pavement outside a fish shop on Steinway Street — a wet concrete apron, crates stacked against a tiled shopfront, a hand-painted sign in two alphabets overhead, the block still mid-morning quiet, a Greek bakery awning visible soft-focus twenty meters back — she has stopped walking — caught by the woman redirecting water with her foot — watching without moving, the moment just before she decides to keep going
By the time I walked back through the neighborhood the zip-up was around my waist. Steinway Street was waking up slowly — the Greek bakeries with their awnings still half-rolled, hand-lettered signs in two alphabets, the smell of something frying that wasn't sweet. A woman was hosing down the pavement in front of a fish shop, redirecting the water with one foot, not looking up. I stopped at a counter two blocks in: coffee and a cheese-filled pastry I pointed at without knowing the name. The man who served me said something in Greek I didn't catch and then, when I didn't respond, handed me extra napkins instead. That seemed like the right resolution.
at a shallow Formica counter inside a Greek bakery on Steinway Street — a narrow room with a hand-lettered bilingual sign taped inside the window, glass pastry case at counter height, an awning half-rolled casting striped shadow onto the pavement outside, visible through the window behind her — she has just pointed at the pastry she cannot name — her hand returned to the counter, the man across from her already reaching — the exchange suspended in the beat before he hands it over
I changed into the dress before noon because the week was ending and I wanted to mark it without making a thing of it.
a cheese-filled pastry — tiropita or bougatsa — on a paper plate beside a short Greek coffee, sesame seeds visible on the flaky crust
By six the light had gone amber and the air smelled faintly of something burning — not close, not alarming, the distant kind, leaves or a grill or a neighborhood I wasn't in. Somewhere a kitchen exhaust was running. The day had cooled by two degrees, maybe three, and you could feel the difference in the shade but not in the sun.
The bridge was still making the same shape it always makes. I'd checked.
on a residential block in Astoria at the edge of evening golden hour — a wide apartment building window reflects the amber street below in its lower pane; she stands on the pavement in front of it, the reflection layering her image over the lit windows of the building across the street, a kitchen exhaust vent above a ground-floor grate breathing warm air that bends the last raking light — paused, looking into the window — not at her reflection but through it, at the reflected building opposite — the moment of realising both images are present simultaneously
What she wore
day7-scene1
I wore the zip-up because the park was still cold before the sun decided what it was doing, and the skirt because I always think better with bare legs.
day7-scene2
By the time I was walking back through the neighbourhood the zip-up was around my waist and I'd stopped caring about looking like I was trying.
day7-scene3
I changed into the dress because the week was ending and I wanted to mark it somehow without making a thing of it.