We were ooowing & ahhhing over an acquaintance’s book of poetry that had been begrudgingly lent and was now being carefully handled. He set it down on the papered work table near our 8th floor open window. In one very foolish elbow move, by me, it was gone. There was a cursing of bad luck in twain. In our mournful anguish we looked out the window expecting to see the book free falling eight stories with the binding bowed and the pages stretching wide, liberating themselves, fluttering as to say I’m ‘this’ free. Down, down to the pavement and crushed underfoot by a New Yorker who was sipping espresso thinking about a guest list as he hurried to buy a newspaper to check into fair weather for this weekends’ family holiday on his home out in Montauk... We focused nearer and saw that the volume had landed in the window plastic flower pot in the apartment just below us, 7D. Being less petrified by whomever lived there, than what would happen to us if we reported the lost book, (Yes, stolen!) we ran down and stood there, before the door, listening intently to the quiet and what lie beyond. Thinking, who would have a plastic flower pot in Union Square?
Labels: 'Some of My Best Friends'