12th Street

On 12th Street, waiting for the light to change. We’re on a little island, and cars are whizzing fast. A young man in a hoodie sidles close and says, “How can I get money off you?” I don’t have anywhere to move. I say, “No.” It’s not the answer to his question. There’s a little hole in my mouth. A crown has come off at dinner the night before, and I’m on my way to the dentist to get it cemented back. He stands near me and says, “How can I get money off you?” I look at him. He’s beautiful. There are little tattoos on his face and hands. Blond corkscrew curls tumble out of the hoodie onto his forehead. His skin is the color of caramel, and there’s a tribal thing happening with his outfit and jewelry and the whole look of him. I say, “Sweetheart, you’re beautiful, and that’s no way to start a conversation with a stranger.” I’m carrying a yoga mat. A shy smile slowly forms on his face. Maybe he’s stoned and isn’t sure what’s happening. I don’t know what’s happening, either. It’s his beauty, or maybe the boredom of the way the thing is supposed to play out. Old to young. White to tan. Male to female. What the fuck ever to what the fuck ever. I say, “Let’s start again,” and I hold out my hand, and he takes my hand. It’s my favorite thing about New York, and I hate fear.

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