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A long time back, someone had told me you couldn’t become a true New Yorker unless you sat in a subway and cried without giving a damn what others thought about you.
Noah, for one, felt like you could tell a real New Yorker from a fake one if you were prepared to go to war over the best burger in town.
That never failed to bring a smile to my face. Outside, the streets were abuzz with energy. Like little ants, people moved, never resting, never stopping. Maybe that was what made New York for me.
It was so impossibly young and ridiculously old at the same time. It never held any sole “identity” because everyone here had a different culture to claim as a first home, and the city as a second.
I, for one, could trace my roots back to a quaint little village called Ashwell in Hertfordshire, England, a whole world away from the energy that pulsated around me now.
My first home had a lot of history. Human habitation dated back to four thousand years in that sleepy town. Even our ancestors loved picnics and the country life.
But Ashwell Springs had more than the average picnic lover’s paradise.
There were beautiful timber-framed cottages, gardens, and a general sense of a slow life that could be undeniably charming.
People there lived by one norm.
Live slow, let go.
People in New York? Ha-ha.
Live hard and beat the shit outta whoever gets in your fucking way.
That was pretty great too, actually. Particularly for those days when you just wanted to get swept into the frantic pace of city life and not sit back and drown in your thoughts.
No, this city was no matron. She was a seductive, voluptuous siren, her eyes dark and meandering, her curves swaying with tantalizing promise. You never knew what each turn would bring, but the ride was like sucking on candy laced with Chamoy.
Alluring and unpredictable, she was a dancer in the night, forever moving to the thrill of luring and pushing, pulling in and out. She could lift you to the heavens or bring you crashing down, face first, questioning every decision that brought you to her.
You could run. You could go back. And you’d wake up in the middle of the night to a siren song calling you back to her, again and again and again.
I sighed, thinking of all the papers I’d have to grade the next morning. For all my love for the city’s young life, every time I read another student trying to convince me Shakespeare was their “daddy”, in that they’d copy his style, or try to, I died a little inside.
“Hey.”
Rory came to stand beside me, her hair down past her shoulders. She had a faint blush on her cheeks. Sweet, like an open rose.
I wondered if she’d heard the sitter over the phone. Even if she hadn’t, I thought it important to let her know.
“Hey, Rory. Would you like something to drink?”
She shook her head. “Not tonight. I’m already very satiated, Professor.”
I chuckled at that. “Not sure if you heard my sitter over the phone. She’s looking after my daughter tonight. Making sure there’s nothing wrong.”
She was quiet for a second, but when she did respond, each of her words felt genuine.
“I’m so touched that you showed up tonight, Professor. Tell me about your daughter.”
My eyes crinkled, and I smiled. How could I describe my daughter?
“Oh, she... she’s the sun and a hurricane wrapped in an adorable little devil’s form.” I laughed. “No, honestly, she’s amazing. When we lost her mother...” I paused.
She didn’t press me, just stood and waited, knowing it would come.
And it did. I was surprised at myself. Talking to her, sharing this part of who I was... it felt natural.
“Her mother and I were both from a small village near London. She moved here first when she got a good job. She was...” I lowered my head. “She was something else. She held the family together. Sally was four years old when we lost her.”
