New York
Let’s start at the end, subway to the airport.
“Tough place to live,” he says. “Tough place to live.”
Worn hands. Worn heart.
Flecks of white paint on his jeans and t-shirt.
Few stops until he’s home. Silver hair and pale eyes.
For us, New York was a week. For him, a world.
He wants to visit London. His daughter’s been.
Did we enjoy New York? We did. We loved it. Second time here.
He smiles proudly for a moment, then he stares out of the window.
And then he asks - eyes still fixed on the window - if we can feel the pressure in the air.
Yes, I say gently. I can feel it in London, too. It’s everywhere.
But I don’t have the heart to tell him, you can really feel it here.
In the perma-grime of the streets. In hushed conversations between tired friends. In faded paintwork.
It’s the weight a mouse feels as wings beat down.
Next stop is us. It was lovely to meet him. I shake his hand and he says good luck.
I hope he takes his trip to London, so he can have his week.
They were careless people, Tom and Daisy – they smashed up things and creatures and then retreated back into their money or their vast carelessness, or whatever it was that kept them together, and let other people clean up the mess they had made.
They were careless people, Tom and Daisy – they smashed up things and creatures and then retreated back into their money or their vast carelessness, or whatever it was that kept them together, and let other people clean up the mess they had made.
new york, march 2025