The Rainy Day
You stayed ten feet behind me.
I told stupid jokes. Anything to get you to walk next to me.
On the escalator in the Nike store you finally spoke, all color returning to your face. You mentioned you got kicked out of cross-fit, and spent the next hour hunting all floors for shoes that might get you reaccepted.
We waited for an Uber on the corner of Broadway and Spring Street. All color disappeared.
The driver's sympathetic eyes met mine in the rearview mirror as you went on and on and on about the shitty food in NYC, overpriced drinks, rude store associates. You would not speak to my stuck-up roommates if you saw them again. It was my fault you brought the wrong shoes and your toes were now drenched in icy dirty street water.
I told you I loved you, we would find the right shoes for you. You said I better get used to the idea you were never coming back to the city.
I just wanted you to love the city as much as I did, to feel the hairs raise on your arm as you saw every creature of the sea sold in Chinatown, as you heard the shop owners in Little Italy yell at each other as sparkling dangling lights hung between their stores (just like in your favorite Italian movie,) as you saw an entire store dedicated to your extravagant taste in Austrialian shoes in SoHo.
I guess I just wanted you to love me, as much as I loved you.
To know that you didn't need the cross-fit crowd or fancy shoes. Someone loved (loves) you as-is, rainy days included.