Babylon, slight return

Arm in arm, we move with the slow and smooth regularity of shadows toward the Grand Central Terminus. As we creep across the pavement, it begins to rain, and after one swift unspoken motion, we find ourselves in a midtown bar sipping red wine. She writes information on a napkin in a hand I recognize to be the same as that printed on the cheerful notes often left on my door in '92...

tengo Patron, 'migo - (arriba!)

I order two tequilas. They are placed on the walnut table that connects us like a bridge. The bridge spans eight years and I can see her smiling brightly on the far shore, 31 years of age going on 22. We reach out, and as our glasses gently collide, for that moment, there is a duplicate world and everyone is there with us...

The Bridge by Joseph Stella, 1922.