Together, we’ve listened to hundreds of hours of stand-up from George Carlin to Mitch Hedberg, Patton Oswalt to Chris Rock, and Abbott & Costello to Eddie Izzard-just to name a few. She’s seen me through a countless number of 200+ miles journeys through the northeast, has made possible the maintaining of a long-distance relationship, and even went the distance last Spring in an epic voyage to New Orleans. We start road trips in the dark, and–sometimes–end them in the light! We try to hit every light on Stewart Avenue on my way to the gym, and constantly learn more about connections between the LIE, GCP, and BQE. We go into Astoria so that I can catch the N,W into Manhattan during the day, and we travel the bridges and tunnels when I drive directly in at night. Martha is a red, 2000 Subaru Forester with 165,000 miles to her name (of which I’m responsible for about 50,000). And our 6-year relationship is rivalled in length and intimacy by only select family and friends.
And for a moment, you’ve set me up, and I’m cooled off too. Because sometimes, the wind blows, catches my hair, and scratches my scalp as I look at backlit trees along 57 th street. I should seek a new unrepeatable experience of some sort, but my fuzzy mimic of that beautiful night brings you to me. It never is though is it? Always chasing after that first, unrepeatable exuberance. I looked at you, and as I finally caught your eye, I could’ve written the line for you: “That was beautiful.” That was beautiful. It could have easily been for a kiss before we entered. When we got back to our apartment, you gently squeezed my hand as I opened the door. But then again, inner peace never seems disrupted no matter how many car horns or screaming fanatics, does it? Inner peace. The trees, backlit by the unexpected-appearance of a starry-sky the antithetical peace that is a gentle night in mid-town Manhattan. I couldn’t believe how clear it was in Manhattan. Remember the evening after that terrible Chinese food we got from that dump on 57 th St.? We knew we had to salvage the night somehow, so you suggested, “A walk along the park might be nice.” And it was. Again, I tried to catch your eye, but you were gone. “I’ll set us up,” and as you passed behind me and my frying pan, you ran your fingers through my hair. You took the bread out of the oven, took the wine out of the bag, the glasses out of the cabinet. I was cooking something with chicken and carrots. A little gift, and you didn’t look for recognition. I tried to catch your eye as you circled around me. “I’m gonna cool off,” you announced as you stood, and as you passed behind, you ran your fingers through my hair. The first time you did that I was 22 and we were lying on a beach in Mexico. Remembering how you’d pass behind and gracefully run your fingers through my hair Sitting silently in the old brown wooden rocking chair
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