Monday. Memorial Day, your last day in the city. You dread travel days, the specter that they hold, returning to old troubles, normalcy, routine, work. You think of the pleasures of last night, the excitement, then brunch. The Upper East Side is bigger, quieter, richer than below. Everything is closed.
You turn a corner toward the park. The city is wonderful with surprises. A group is gathered, placards waving. Shouting through a bullhorn. You cannot understand what is being said.
“Take my stuff to the end of the block,” you say pulling out your camera. “I just want to take some pictures.”
“You’ll get beaten.” The hopeful laugh.
The day slides by too quickly. Happy people at their leisure. You are not one. You feel the difference. You watch the days recede into memory.