You’re quiet, tired from a long week. It’s evening. The sun is low, and reaching back to Manhattan from the West. You’re not going to talk, not right now. If I asked, you’d tell me that you’re not upset, just quiet and tired, and you don’t have anything to say.
A penny for the private thoughts of a pretty girl, Ana.
We’re sitting next to each other, but we’re farther apart than that.
- You ok?
You nod.
- Really?
Another nod.
I lean toward you to whisper something funny, you smile but don’t laugh. A breeze sweeps across the rooftops, and your hair is everywhere: in your face, mine - one strand, twenty, a hundred, a thousand. The wind catches it. The falling sun catches it. It’s the color of clover honey.
You’re wrong, you know. Facing the uncertainty of the future with fear, instead of wonder. And I might tell you that tonight.
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