I find a space right against the park, and have to check the street signs three separate times to make sure I’m allowed to park there on a Sunday.
Then I get out and walk. Only the pines are offering green against the sky at this time of year, but the bare branches speak to me more. I find a path where they meet overhead, crowning the space I’m in. Most of the people around me are walking dogs, although at this hour it looks more like the dogs are walking the people. I never stop being aware I’m in the middle of one of the biggest cities in the world, but at the same time, I like that the park is big enough to put the city to the side. I’m hungry and I probably need coffee, but all the vendors are still asleep. I walk twisted paths where the people and dogs disappear, and I wonder if I’m safe. I walk back to a more open space, a gigantic expanse dotted with empty baseball fields. I walk until my feet hurt, and my phone buzzes, and I find out my next place to be.
A
Day 6133
Rhiannon and I sit on a bench overlooking a particularly steep hill on the east side of Central Park. I’ve brought her coffee. As she sips it, I look at her lips and the way they touch the lid. I’ve missed this.
I am telling her about this morning. The telling-her is something I’ve missed, too. The feeling that something I’ve experienced isn’t complete until it’s shared with one particular person.
“So Arwyn’s apartment is only about a block and a half away from Tyana’s father’s. Which sort of proves something I always thought—that the more people there are around, the less distance I have to travel from body to body. Just think about it—if I lived here, I could live in the same neighborhood for months. Maybe years. I might never leave Manhattan.”
“That would make life easier,” Rhiannon says. “But not really. You’d still be changing.”
“I know, I know.”
I hadn’t been saying it as an argument for what we should do. Not this time.
Rhiannon gestures at my body. “So tell me about Arywn.”
“Honestly? There’s a lot I’m not sure of, since they’re not sure. So let’s just call them questioning, about pretty much everything.”
“You’re saying they and them.”
“I kinda want to do that now. If I don’t know for sure how they identify. Makes sense to me that way.”
“It didn’t before?”
“I didn’t have to talk about them before. You know, to anyone else.”
“Then I came along,” she says, cozying in.
“Yeah,” I say, cozying back. “Then you came along.”
I think that Central Park must be one of the only places in Manhattan that doesn’t feel like it’s owned by anyone or named after anyone or making anyone a profit. It’s this oasis of pure existence in a realm of sustenance and maintenance. Because of this, I’ve already decided it might just be my favorite part of the city. Not that I’ve seen much of the rest of it yet.
I’m lost for a second, looking at the park, imagining it within the city. Rhiannon’s gone quiet, too. And I think that’s okay. No, that’s good. Even after being apart for so long, we don’t feel we have to rush our lives together.
We are acting as if we have time. Plenty of time.
RHIANNON
I ask myself, What if this were our bench?
I imagine it. Every morning, we meet here. Some days, A might be walking a dog. Other days, A might be on the way to work. I would probably be on my way to work—at a coffee shop, or a bookstore, or at a coffee shop in a bookstore. It won’t open until ten—no, eleven. I’ll have time to spend on the bench, sipping a latte with A, talking about our yesterdays, our todays, and maybe a tomorrow or two, at least for me. Sometimes I’ll get to the bench second, and I’ll have to wonder if the person sitting there is actually A, or if some interloper has…interloped. But I’ll know as soon as they look up at me. I’ll know as soon as they say good morning.
We’ll grow old together on this bench. All the dog walkers, all the joggers who pass by this particular bench—they’ll know it as our bench. Or at least my bench. Because I’ll be the one who doesn’t change. When it rains, I’ll have a polka-dot umbrella. When it snows, A will bring a blanket for us to sit under. In the autumn, we’ll dress like the leaves. We won’t realize we’re aging. But we’ll age on this bench. And always be the same two people at heart.
We won’t live together. We’ll rarely get to see each other at night. But every morning, we’ll have the bench.
It’s a nice fantasy. But it doesn’t sound like anything real.
A
Day 6133 (continued)
Arwyn had to break plans with their friends to go see a movie downtown, and since I don’t want to accidentally run into any of them, I suggest we stay uptown—whatever that means. I look on the city map for a divider, but I don’t see any.
“Want to go to a museum?” I ask Rhiannon. There seem to be plenty of museums on the map.
“Let’s go to the Metropolitan Museum,” she says. “It’s right over there.”
She points to a building that looks like a mansion at the edge of the park. Then, the closer we get, the bigger it becomes, more like a castle than a mansion.
I’ve seen the massive stairway leading up to the Met in so many movies and TV shows that I feel I already know it; seeing it presents a thrill of recognition, not a thrill of discovery. Once we’re inside, I get a map, and it’s like we’re suddenly time travelers, able to walk to any spot in history to see what it will end up leaving behind. I don’t know much about art, so I have no idea where to begin. I also don’t know which periods Rhiannon likes best, or if she doesn’t have a preference, like me. The museum will help me find out more about her, too.
“So where should we start?” I ask.
She yawns, and then blushes in embarrassment at her yawn. “Sorry! I didn’t sleep much last night. Let’s start with the impressionists. Those rooms are always my favorite.”
I consult the map. “Upstairs!”
“You are way too cheery.”
“I guess I always get some sleep.”
“You wouldn’t have, in that hotel.”
“That bad?”
“No—it was fine. I’m just not used to sleeping alone in hotel rooms.”
“I wish I could’ve been there with you.”
“I know. Me too.”