There is no reason to love New York anymore. I read that somewhere. Every street there’s another bank, another place to buy pointless things for lots of money, another ad pretending to be art. Every spring they import the same ideal flowers. I see them in planters and in the corporate-owned public park I frequent. If it rains too soon, the flowers collapse; shallow roots become shallow graves. I can be so critical—I always have something to say, even about the flowers. 

I see another coffee shop. I guess that's alright. I'll go inside and have a matcha latte. Whole milk’s fine. On every block there is another suffering person. As I stare at my feet, waiting for the light to change, I overhear two men talking about something or other. I catch that they're both living elsewhere, in New Jersey and Connecticut. For some reason this irritates me. If they're going to be here, taking up space, shouldn’t they at least have the decency to live here? To have a stake? 

But what is here, anyway? My home is distant from all this, too, by necessity. I walk up Madison toward 65th Street and imagine these were once places to be living, but really I have no idea. I see another store selling complicated swimsuits—who can possibly have the money? I am discouraged. I go to the chain cafe place, the newish one that’s spreading out and growing virus-like on every other street. I wonder if I am part of the problem. But my lunch (half a sandwich and a small black tea) was under seven dollars, so what can I say? There is no reason to love New York anymore. And yet.

One evening, we’re going straight from work to a reading, and we’re early. We need a respite, decompression. I suggest a coffee shop nearby. On our walk over I’m already imagining the lemon bread and matcha latte. I know how it tastes. I know how it makes me feel. 

But we’re thwarted. The bathroom here is out of order. This is a dealbreaker, really, because who knows if the place we’re going will be equipped with one. Finding a public bathroom is one of the challenges of navigating New York City. I feel silly for being disappointed as the lemon bread vanishes from possibility. I always get my hopes up. We go elsewhere. 

Three minutes away, according to the maps app, is a place we’ve never been. We scope out the bathroom upon arrival. Open! There aren’t many other people, and there are pieces of paper taped to the wall that say No Laptops Allowed. Maybe that’s why. The barista is speaking from behind the counter to a man sitting on a stool, reading a newspaper. She interrupts herself at odd moments to show a teenager how to use one of the machines. New recruit? Newspaper man must come here often, because he’s unbothered by the staccato conversation they’re having. He must know her. I wonder how well he knows her. We order oolong tea, iced. She says oolong’s a good choice. The tea comes out in mason jars. 

We sit and drink for a while. Then we ask for to-go cups. 

We have to get going, my partner says to her. I shrug and smile, as if I’m reluctant, so she knows I’ve enjoyed myself here. 

Somewhere fun?  she asks. 

She starts talking about theater, which isn’t quite related, but I nod enthusiastically. I imagine coming here, drinking oolong tea, talking theater and knowing this woman. I say Thanks, have a good one like I will see her tomorrow. We take our teas and start walking. This was months ago, I've never been back.

In the summer, the city smells like burnt rubber and melting garbage. Heat, with the smell clinging to it, radiates from the asphalt and is trapped between buildings. You can actually see the heat hanging there, vibrating like lethargic static. No escape. We're swimming in it. 

There's nothing like daylight in the evening, though. To leave the office and still have sun left at home is the reward. At six I arrive, shed my bags and throw open the windows in the kitchen; to the whirr of my neighbor’s A/C unit. We go out after seven and the world is still alive, things are happening and there’s time to be a part of them. By eight, the heat is mostly gone and the air smells like water (carried on a breeze from the strait) and flowers (from the lush gardens of the rich people who live near the strait). Our home doesn’t even feel like the city sometimes. We walk everywhere in and around the neighborhood, we can take any street down to the park, and we’ve done them all. We were only regarded with suspicion once, when we wandered down a dead-end street and saw a house that looked like a castle; elevated and hidden by trees. A man taking out the trash next door didn’t appreciate us gawking. So we hurried up and left. 

One more thing. Where I work we have summer hours, an annual dream where every Friday is a half day. It takes exactly one afternoon to become accustomed to summer Fridays. It's a privilege, I guess, a gift—but I can't help but feel a little cheated and used when those hours are stolen back again after Labor Day.

Emerging from the subway, 7:50 AM. A police officer stands at the top of the stairs, creating a partial eclipse of the light. Puffed up in armor and uniform, an assault rifle crossed over his chest, his hands in that awkward rifle-holding position I've become accustomed to—because I see police officers holding assault rifles fairly often. Hands and wrists bent at weird angles. Do they get cramps in their fingers? Or has the design been perfected as to be completely comfortable for the wielder? 

As I wander toward my office thinking about this, I’m reminded of the time I spent as an amateur fencer (a million years ago). Fencing blades come in one of two general grip types: French grip or pistol grip. The pistol grip is designed to make the blade easier to hold. The French grip is where you start, but it’s more cumbersome; harder to keep aligned with your wrist, heavier somehow. My coach used to say that you ought to be proficient in French grip before you switch to pistol. That didn’t stop me from getting both my epees outfitted in pistol grips as soon as I discovered the option. The blade wasn’t uncomfortable anymore, but I was still a pretty terrible fencer. Is this related somehow? It’s an automatic weapon, not a pistol grip. And in fencing you’re both armed.

Two surfers attempt catching minimal waves. One falls backward in his wetsuit; he’s letting go. On the shore, under a towel, I’m watching. I watch their persistence and pursuit, the building of their hopefulness. I’m struck by the instantaneous way they give up. It’s not a criticism. In fact, it’s a requirement—give up or else be pummeled. The instinct to let go.

As we walked along the main drag on the first evening we arrived, I was looking for something, a feeling. I pass my eye over each shop: a tanning salon, a clothing boutique, a twenty-four hour gym. We cross diagonally through a gas station, halting abruptly for a girl going by on a bike, plastic bag from a convenience store hanging from her wrist. There’s a sun-bleached sign for an abandoned Baskin Robbins. I wonder: will we be happy here? Maybe the caffeine has made me nervous. I thought about train accidents during the trip, as the city slipped away—cataloged what types of injuries might be sustained while sitting in the first car on impact. Probably the caffeine has made me nervous. 

But it feels like everyone knows we’ll only be here three days. Outside a Cuban restaurant, we huddle around one phone, scrolling through customer reviews, deciding whether or not to try it. A man turns into the smoke shop next door muttering, I’ll bash his fuckin’ face in.

If year after year we sit on the same beach, walk the same street… one day, will we have a kind of home here?

One evening after work, I’m about to cross 13th Street. From down the block, I see a young woman stopped and staring at the ground. She turns as if to walk away, changes her mind, pivots back to her position. She seems irritated or impatient. 

As I get closer I see the object of her vexation: a small bird, lying there on the sidewalk. I can see that it is still alive, but barely, the only movements it makes are minute muscle spasms. The eye facing up is just half closed. I wait for the light to change and watch the woman watching the poor creature. She looks up at the protruding sign of the restaurant on her left, the sign the bird must have struck by accident, and down at the bird again. She kneels for a moment, stands back up. Suddenly, as if she’s been hit with an epiphany, swings her backpack around to her chest. Roots through it. 

But she doesn’t find what she’s looking for. She closes the bag, moves it back around, shakes her head. Gazes down. She probably needs to be going. How long will she wait?

It's strange, the feeling that there is nothing you can do. The simplicity of the situation seems to say, of course, of course, you can do something. One small suffering bird on the sidewalk. Pick it up? Take it to Union Square Park to die in the shade? Find someone who might save it? Kill it yourself (if only you knew how to kill mercifully)?

I know I’ve felt that before, though I can’t think of a time. I could have stood there watching her for much longer. But the light changed, and someone was waiting for me. I glanced over my shoulder when I reached the other side of the street. She was still standing there, looking down. 

We went to see Saint Jerome in the Wilderness, an unfinished painting by da Vinci, at the Met. They exhibit it alone, in a dark curved alcove blocked by curtains and a partition. There is one bench, placed a few feet back, and stanchions to hold people at a safe viewing distance.

We go in and float away from each other. I sit on the bench and wait for the crowd to clear. I’m interested in how people interact with the piece. I find myself watching and listening to them instead of looking at the painting. There is an elderly woman in a wheelchair accompanied by a middle-aged man. She’s been placed right in front of the painting, her knees brushing the stanchions. The man is kneeling at her side and they’re talking—I can’t hear them from this distance because of the crowd.

The crowd disperses. For a moment, it’s just the woman in the wheelchair and her companion, and a few of us sitting on the bench. I take this chance to go closer. First, I look to confirm the tidbits of interesting things I read on the wall at the front of the exhibit. Yes, there is color in the top left. Yes, the body is partially rendered. I love the lion. Even though I’ve gone to art museums over and over, I feel like I’m just now beginning to understand what I’m looking at. A piece of work. An ancient piece of work. Something unreal about “art” is fading. I had a thought recently, while looking around my apartment, that if the place were to be abandoned tomorrow everything would remain there, gathering historical significance and becoming an artifact. I am looking at that now, when I look at Saint Jerome in the Wilderness. It is not a process. 

I can hear what the man and the woman in the wheelchair are saying now. He’s describing the folds in the saint’s robe. I suddenly wonder: can she not see it?

On regular days, I have minor fantasies of running into friends and acquaintances on the street. I scan strangers, half-expecting a familiar one, seeing in my mind the little light of recognition in a well-known face, the look that says ‘yes, you, I remember.’ Trading pleasantries: How are you? Good, you? Yes, me too. What brings you to the city? We’ll have to catch up some time, where are you going? I’ll walk with you. They take all forms, those I’ve seen just recently and others I haven’t met in years. I wonder if this is a particular city-strain of loneliness (if indeed it is loneliness), possible only in a place where you are seen constantly but rarely known. Perhaps one can only tolerate so many anonymous glances before needing replenishment by recognition. The city pushes these limits, until you see a stranger and start to think—who could I be for you? Who did you hope to see when you looked at me?

And then on other regular days, I love people for their unknownness, no need to mention it, no need to mention me. Good morning; let me hold a door for everyone and say you’re welcome.

Fall in the city is a bit like everywhere else: the sense of starting again. On the best days, there’s a gorgeous, humane chill. To be outside at any time is comfortable. This fall began at 90 degrees, but by now I can hardly remember that. 

Coats and scarves against brisk mornings, the sun streams warmer than expected in the afternoon. Bright lights and dark shadows. Fall is high contrast. Every day gets a little darker a little sooner. Suddenly (always suddenly) I notice that the trees have transformed. 

There’s a familiar desire, recalled from last year, to sit around in cafes in the evening. It’s already night out, there’s no difference between 5 and 8. Might as well stay a little longer. The walking I expect to do in summer seems to happen more in fall. 

I guess when I talk about the seasons, I only want to talk about beautiful things. Naturally, every moment has a downside. I tend to be unhappy to lose the daylight; for this reason alone I've said I prefer spring. But the more falls I have the more I love them. (Ask me again in December what I think.)

Sometimes I witness moments on the subway that move me. 

One time: A woman scrolls through photos of a rafting or kayaking trip on her phone. Smiling people, somewhere with lots of green and water. She lingers on their faces. Flips to the next one. Where are those people now? Commuting to work, too? 

I've actually seen this more than once. People going through photos. Often the pictures are of babies and children. I could assign a feeling to this. Longing or quiet devastation. But what do I know? 

Another time: Across from me, a little girl slouches, making faces at her mother. She is very sacred to me as a little girl, as I was once a little girl. I get a sort of silly feeling—the weight of knowing I will never be a little girl again. It must be familiar to people, this weight that comes and goes. Some possibilities are gone. I've taken so many steps since then. 

I can't imagine having New York so young. She throws her backpack carelessly onto the seat next to her, digs through it and leaves it unzipped. She’s not worried about anything. Flips without reading through her mother's New Yorker. Maybe one day she'll go where I came from. Maybe (more likely?) she'll stay here. 

Recently: I see a woman come through the subway doors slowly, distracted by a greeting card she’s reading. She shuffles a little, lurches as the train moves forward, and finally slides heavily into the empty seat next to me. Not once has she taken her eyes from the well wishes. I read some over her shoulder. I’m so nosy. She is getting married.

Congrats! Can’t wait to see pics! Wish you the best on your big day! Ed, Brandon, Amy, Frank. Nice sentiments from acquaintances really do mean something, don’t they?

Today: Another little girl. She’s writing in a notebook with a pencil. Once upon a time. I have to look away. I shouldn’t be so nosy. I shouldn’t assign a feeling. And there is, inevitably, the weight. 

Lately there’s been an influx of people on the sidewalk, attempting to stop pedestrians and ask them to donate, buy, or otherwise participate. They sometimes wear colorful vests, which helps in avoiding them. I’ve been stopped twice recently. 

First, on my way to a yoga class. Two women about my age approach me, and one says, Hey! Who is a woman you’d want to have dinner with?

I say, does she have to be alive?

No! says the other. 

Ursula K. Le Guin, I say.

Who is Ursula K. Le Guin? says the other woman. 

And so we stand in front of the building where my yoga class is about to start---in five minutes---and have a nice conversation about Ursula K. Le Guin. But I’m still speaking with hesitance. I know what this is, ultimately. When will they want something from me? 

Then the moment arrives. They ask me to type my email address into an iPad. I think, alright, they say it’s for charity. We had a nice talk. I’ll give $10. No, I’m sorry, says the woman. They need me to commit to a $35-a-month donation. 

And so I tell them I'm late, disengage, feeling sort of used and irritated. It's my own damn fault.

Second, on my way to work in the morning. A woman taps me on the shoulder and says, “Our bags are the same color!”

So they are. 

“We’re telling women about our church,” she says. She keeps pace alongside me. I slow down, nod, listen. I’m not an antagonistic type of atheist, and she seems as surprised as I am to have entered into this nearly-intimate exchange. There’s something in the way our faces angle toward each other. As if we were two friends taking a walk. I guess most people blow her off. 

We were together until the end of the block. She told me about the Mother God.

There’s a way to say this simply, perhaps in only one sentence. I probably won’t be able to.

When I’m riding the train over the Manhattan Bridge, I like to look at the high rise apartment building looming next to the tracks. Through the windows, I see sofas and televisions, bookshelves and tasteful framed photographs of flowers. On each floor there is a corner unit. I can see four of these units from my seat, stacked one on top of the other with their identical windowpane patterns. All glass from floor to ceiling.

In December, there’s something more. (Doubts; is this worth saying? Do I keep going?) Each of the corner units has a Christmas tree placed in the exact same spot. One has wider branches, one is more densely decorated. But there is a tree in every corner. Like they are attached by a single thread running down the middle.

This is so nice to me, nice enough to write about. But I have a question floating in my head the whole month. Do they know? Is there any way they could?