My face is tired from smiling.
Whether it was the gurgle of the radiator heating my crooked apartment for the first time or the crisp breeze blowing the fig trees in the backyard, I’m not quite sure. There’s something about today that makes me smile.
Pasty Cline sings her heartache. I feel it. I still smile. My coffee is already cold, and I have work I need to be doing. I still smile. The air is perfect. The day is at my cold fingertips.
I’m going to dub it the smirk of New York City. The smirk of knowing one day you’ll be sitting on the roof, last night for instance, eyes moist from the tears and frustration of this place, and then your cheeks will be sore from contentment. Mag calls it the bipolar of New York. One minute it’s filled with elation the next isolation.
There’s a faith in the pace assuring me that though the bad, distressing and difficult will be present and sometimes deep it’ll zip away like the R train when it actually decides to run. There’s faith that the good will be euphoric. There’s faith that ebbing and flowing will be present, and thank goodness for that.