Looking Backwards

I asked Stoph how his move to New York went.  “It’s fine,” he responded.  “I mean, I always knew I would eventually end up here, so it doesn’t feel weird.”

I do not have the same kind of focused direction, but I understand the feeling,  I think I’ve always known I would end up in a city, and here I am.  I think when I look back on my twenties, I won’t remember the floundering feelings of being lost and aimless, but rather the nights out: tripping down the asphalt, our laughs and shouts bouncing off the dark, silent rowhomes and storefronts; my face smeared with makeup and sweat; my nostrils and wilted hair laced with smoke; the silk of my top stained with cocktail spills; the sickly sweet aftertaste of fermented grain in my mouth and my feet blistered raw from dancing; my ears throbbing from hip hop and electro and my eyes dry and tired. 

But what I will remember most are the cab rides home.  Sometimes I’m with friends and we’re talking much too loudly and being far too obnoxious.  Sometimes I’m with a boy and we’re being obnoxious in a different way.  But the best times are when I’m alone, with the windows open and the swift cool wind sweeping back my hair as I rest my tired head against the sticky vinyl sea. 

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