He gave her a handmade Starbucks napkin flower, and proclaimed her the most desirable woman in the park.
“You make me want to be an investment banker, so I can take you on a yacht,” he did not say.
Her rainbow ponytail was like My Little Pony.
“One day, our children will shovel sand into the sea to stir up the elements,” he wanted to say.
From one journalist or blogger to another: How many “clicks” does “I’m a virgin” bathroom wall graffiti count as getting, if 100 people enter the room every day and it’s written right over the sink? How many does a spandex skirt edging up a 19-year-old’s ass on the subway steps at rush hour in Times Square? Or an off-tune accordion assaulting that same station four hours a day (weekdays only)?
If you leave the city, think of everything you’ll miss. Everything all the other people aren’t missing. Everything like the words on the bathroom wall.
One day, he wanted to tell her, we’ll give the man who asks us a nickel, because we’ll remember how many coins burdened our pockets when we tried to dance at a bar. One day we’ll stop getting nebulous text messages, and no more strangers will elbow us on the street.
One day we won’t have to harness our consumption of french fries, peach cobbler, marijuana, cholesterol, oil, empty orgasms, roommates’ milk or grandparents’ savings. Won’t have to fret about making an impact or looking good in the mirror or overcoming anxiety or washing our clothes
or answering emails or going to yoga or creating something beautiful or being kind
or riding bikes or having meaningless sex or unbearably incredible sex or reading enough books
or knowing which countries are at war or wearing the right amount of color
or making politically incorrect jokes or filing bankruptcy or remembering our own names
or breathing or beating our hearts.
We’ll die, and it’ll be someone else’s turn.