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It was dark when she exited the subway station at 14th Street. People walked with their heads down against the cold, eager to get to the next warmplace.
In the summer Washington Square was crowded with people until late in the night and Nina had spent more than one warm evening sitting near the fountain after drinks with the girls. In the aftermath of her breakups with Liam and Jack, she’d found comfort in the evidence that life went on, that couples still walked hand in hand and little old men still walked their dogs and tourists still took pictures in front of thefountain.
The atmosphere was different in the winter, thick with a kind of desolation that somehow managed to be beautiful. The trees were bare of their leaves, the fountain silent, turned off to avoid freezing of thepipes.
Street lamps illuminated the concrete pathways, and Nina stuffed her hands in her pocket as she headed for the bench where she’d found the first photograph. She had no idea what she would do with the photographer if they managed to connect, but it seemed important to make theeffort.
She came to the bench and removed the Post-Its from her bag along with a pen, then sat on the bench and thought about what to write. Mentioning that the pictures were all of women seemed like a recipe for hysteria: there was no way to make “pictures of women” not sound creepy to anyone who might find the Post-It.
She bent her head and startedwriting.
Dear photographer ofsolitude,
Your pictures move me. I would love to hear yourstory.
Nina
She addedher phone number and studied the note to make sure it made sense. She’d intentionally avoided any mention of the gallery. She had a feeling the photographer wasn’t looking for that kind of attention, that the pictures were a labor of love and not a guerrilla marketingtactic.
Standing, she taped the Post-It on the bench and continued through the park, stopping at all the places she remembered finding photos — light posts and benches and tree trunks and the short iron fences that bordered the walkways. She used the sleeve of her coat to wipe off the surfaces, damp and cold with winter, before using the duct tape to secure thenotes.
She retraced her steps and made her way out of the park the way she’d come in, smiling as she passed the small pieces of neon pink paper flapping in the wind. It was a different kind of art, the paper bright against the sepia shades of winter. It would make for a strange scavenger hunt and she hoped no one would remove them before at least one could be found by thephotographer.
She wondered if the woman left her photographs anywhere else in the city, if she was out there somewhere, taping them to the walls of subway stations and condemned buildings. It made her happy to think of another woman walking the streets alone, on a mission, bearing witness to silent moments, making solitude not a thing to fear but a thing ofbeauty.
Ofstrength.
She stepped through the gate and started for Jack’s feeling more settled than she had indays.
