Summer day, late afternoon, Crazy Suzanne appears at my door. “Are my tits getting bigger?” she wonders, raising her shirt up to her shoulders. Never having made their acquaintance before, I was at a loss but I looked anyway. Another time, another season, another person, I’d have invited her inside for further discussions, but this was Crazy Suzanne. and while her zipper might come down, her blue jeans never would. We had a name for that. I met Suzanne because, on a crowded sidewalk, she resembled my hippie wife, in a washed-out kind of way, reminding me of better times lost and fading into harsher truths. Up close, the resemblance lessened like a photo enlarged so much it flattened until no hippie remained. Crazy Suzanne was a nurse. She lived upstairs from the funeral home and sometimes helped out. Nurse by day, diener by night. I fell for her for around 15 minutes, then pretended, tried to believe. There were lessons. When the past calls you back, stay where you are. The past is past and you can never go there. Second, why lust for something so long after its sell-by date? But it might’ve been worse. She might’ve let her jeans slide down with her zipper and everything else trying not to drown in Nixon’s America. Then, where the fuck would we be?
What the Promenade Remembers
A morning walk, a small act, and the quiet difference between what we notice and what we leave behind.
The light on the East River in the early morning is different from the light anywhere else on the Island. It comes in low and sideways, catching the water in long, uneven flashes. On certain days it makes the promenade feel less like a walkway and more like a corridor someone once meant to finish but never quite did. When I was younger I found the suggestion to stop and look at it faintly ridiculous.
amazing 😍
Thank you.
Welcome