Hot, bitter coffee in my cup swirled with sweet thoughts of hot dudes reading in the subway. Touch. Chocolate. Kisses on my tongue. Is that a Spanish accent? You look like you stylishly rolled out of bed. That signature coat. It’s probably designer, but I wouldn’t know. My hangover, headache subsides. Too much lemon on my avocado toast, but I eat it anyway, and it makes me happy. Faint, sudden desire to call maman. “No Trump Towers” they say, while imitating Louis Armstrong. “Where were these trees of green,” they wonder. “And red roses too?” Are they judging me for my simple meal? “That’s all?,” she tsked. Does my bright green scarf, do my colorful Converse offend your stylish all-black NYC sensibilities? Yeah, mine too. Too much color. So much beauty. Stand tall, you too are beautiful. Models. “Were you in that collection? How was it?” Bike riding in the rain. All black. All in black. Always. Breathe. Release. “Is she married? To a rich man? An architect?” A doctuh doctuh? More accents. I could ride a bike in this city. But I want. Won’t. Tall & leggy. She has a baby. Do they eat? Ever? Red pepper flakes got my nose running. Need new nails. Be a good girl and get your ashes. Ordered another coffee. I don’t know why. Senses overwhelmed. Caffeinated. Creeping into my blood, my brain. Where next? Paris? Rome? I would trip over my feet before I completely fit in. The giant tomato costume in a room full of sexy witches, kittens and nurses. How do you know what to buy? How do you know? Or do you just wear it anyway? Own it. Black. Shades of black. Did I mention that? Dark grey, if you’re bold. Or go crazy with something long and sloppy from Guatemala. She did. But she can pull it off. Shiny shoes. Nice boots. Funky glasses. Hair pulled back, straight. Happy happy drizzle. I open up my bright red umbrella. Luckily everyone’s wearing sunglasses. Skip the Guggenheim. Skip the Met. There is enough art passing before my eyes, quickly, in slow motion. Coriander and cumin tease. But I just ate. Flurries of snow. Fingers numb. Feet walking, walking, walking. East side. West side. Uptown. Chinatown. SoHo. No sleep till Brooklyn. Ah, Brooklyn. Where kittens coil at my feet, wine dances across my palate and friends like me. Really like me. Crosstown. Traffic. A toast to her. Silence. I wasn’t staring. Grilled cheese and wine for lunch. Meatballs and fennel last night. Masala and samosas tomorrow. Martini and tartare for happy hour today. I can’t wait. Kids laughing. Fathers scolding. Me holding, it all together as I look up and breathe. I’m nuts 4 nuts. And I love this city.
Anne-Julia Price 