Page 101 of 72 Hours of You

“Out to breakfast?” He laughs. “Just kidding. I might not ever eat again after yesterday. Literally.”

“Not funny,” I say.

“Kind of funny.”

We get up and brush our teeth together. The bathroom has two sinks but we use the same one, our elbows bumping and neither of us caring. And then we walk out of the hotel room. Stepping out the door feels wrong. It feels like that hotel room is the only safe place in the world, and we’re leaving it. Our little bubble. I almost tell him no and drag him back into the room, back into our cozy nest. But he smiles down at me while we wait for the elevator, and so I smile back up at him and pretend like every part of my body isn’t screaming in fear.

We take the elevator down and step out onto the already busy New York streets, the morning sun stinging my eyes after all those hours inside.

“Where to now?”

“Wherever.”

We walk to Central Park and people-watch for a while, Peter making up nice stories about their lives, me guessing at their worst secrets.

10:25:49

“I want to take you somewhere,” I say.

“Where?”

“Just … come on.”

We walk for a bit, letting the faster people pass us. We’re not in a hurry. Or maybe we are. I don’t know anymore.

We stop. “Okay, you probably haven’t heard of this building. It’s very under the radar.”

Peter laughs and looks up at the Empire State Building. “Wow, yeah. Never heard of this one. What’s it called?”

“No one knows,” I say. “It’s a big mystery. They think maybe aliens built it. Like the pyramids.”

“I’m pretty sure the pyramids were built from enslaved people’s labor.”

“Shhh,” I say.

“The Starrett Corporation built the Empire State Building,” he whispers.

“God, you really can’t help yourself, can you?”

“No, I really can’t,” he says, leaning down to kiss me.

I breathe him in, trying to hold on to that feeling for as many seconds as I can.

“Have you ever been to the top?” I ask.

“Actually, no,” he says.

“I thought we could go up to the observation deck. I thought maybe you’d like to see the city from up there.”

“That sounds great,” he says, squeezing my hand.

We walk inside and go up to the counter. “Can we have two tickets to the observation deck?”

A middle-aged white guy looks up from his copy of the Times. “Sorry,” he says, “we’re closed for maintenance today.”

No fucking way.

This cannot be happening.