December 7, 2021

We were meant to meet on west 54th Street between Sixth and Seventh Avenue on the last Friday of October at 7:30pm. The holidays lights were glowing, and I was running thirty minutes late; the F train’s signal had malfunctioned, that was all. You were waiting for a while beneath the awning between west 54th and west 55th, reading the letter that I wrote four weeks before and sent to you two weeks ago ––– something about parallel imaginations shared between two people who live in two different cities ten years apart from each other though still at the same time. The whole evening was crazy, and once I got to the awning and saw you and saw the holiday lights strung around the plastic trees, it started raining. Rain happens. We got over it. 8:00pm and everything still remained possible. October’s last light would flicker a few more times here and there, but that would be all ––– and that would be more than enough. We didn’t need anything else.