Saturday, September 23, 2006

The Homecoming

Saturday afternoon, just after a rain. The air is warm and humid, the skies are cloudy. You know he’ll be home soon, so you take the screen from the window and lean out out out, over the window ledge, over the fire escape, eating a mango and watching the sidewalks for his familiar walk, his familiar face.

After a few minutes, you see him and yell down at him:


He looks behind him and across the street, and shifts the black bag he carries over his shoulder, but he does not look up. So you yell:

Up here!

And he looks up.

He smiles and waves says hey in that funny voice you sometimes use with each other and you are practically jumping up and down, you are so excited to see him.

Later, you’ve turned off all the lights but have forgotten the radio and so there is the radio and also a siren from outside, and he takes your clothes off, kisses you, says I like your panties as he slides them over your hips and down your legs, casting them aside.

You say: Thank you and then you laugh out loud at how polite you sound. And then you are lost in the moment.

Later, you are lounging in bed and there is some jazz on the radio and outside there is yet another siren and you are half asleep and you think how well jazz goes with the sounds of the city. You think that jazz was made for places like New York, and then you think that you were made for places like New York, for days like this, and you cuddle closer into his shoulder and settle in for an afternoon nap.