The world expands.
The skyline rises behind us, all glass and fire, the East River stretched out below like molten silver. The bridge hums beneath our feet, cables stretching overhead like the strings of some great instrument. The wind whips through her hair, and she turns to me, cheeks flushed, eyes bright, and I swear, for a heartbeat, I forget every noise, every person, every damn reason not to love her.
All I can see is her smile—soft, unguarded, brilliant—and the way the sun hits her face like it’s choosing her over the whole city.
We walk across the bridge, hand in hand. The air hums with the low, constant thrum of traffic beneath our feet. The city stretches in every direction—steel and glass catching the last light of day—but the electricity running through my right hand makes it hard to notice anything else. Her fingers, small and certain, are wrapped around mine, her pulse against my skin.
The bridge is alive with people. Tourists snapping photos, cyclists weaving past, the faint strains of a violin somewhere behind us, but all I can focus on is her.
She points things out as we walk. “That’s the Manhattan Bridge… over there’s Dumbo… that building used to be a factory.” Each word colored with warmth and pride. Her hair catches the afternoon sun, streaks of gold tangled in the wind. Her skin glows with that soft, honeyed light that only happens right before sunset. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything more beautiful.
She glances up at me, eyes sparkling. “You doing okay over there?
“Just takin’ it in,” I murmur, though I’m not sure if I mean the skyline or her.
We reach the first great arch. I tilt my head back, looking up at the web of cables stretching toward the sky. It’s immense—humbling. I’m a big man; I rarely feel small, but here, beneath the weight of history and her hand in mine, I feel small and powerful all at once.
I’m thinking I’ll remember this for the rest of my life when she tugs her phone from her back pocket.
“Smile,” she says, turning it toward us. I do. She lifts her arm, clicks, and the photo captures us with Brooklyn blazing behind, her smile wide, mine barely contained.
I don’t let go of her hand even when I spot a few people walking toward us in Strikers jerseys. Recognition might be one careless glance away, but I don’t care. For the first time, I don’t want to hide.
We keep walking for a while, taking it all in. The skyline painted in gold, the hum of voices, the steady rhythm of footsteps against the old wooden planks. People sell art and souvenirs along the railing, their tables crowded with postcards, keychains, and sketch prints of the bridge.
I slow near one stand, eyeing a row of hats hanging from a wire rack. “Should I get myself a hat so you can have yours back?”
She steps beside me, scanning the display. “All of them are New York Yankees hats,” she says, mock horror in her voice. “And as a Houston Astros fan, I couldnotsupport said purchase.”
That earns a laugh from me, deep and genuine. She grins up at me. “Plus, why would you want to wear any other hat? This one suits you.”
Her laughter floats between us, soft and contagious. I shake my head, still smiling, and slip an arm around her, pulling her closer as we move on.
The bridge hums beneath our steps, and just ahead, a man sits behind a folding table crowded with watercolor art, each piece shimmering in the sunlight. I’m immediately drawn to them, unable to walk past.
One of the drawings catches my eye:Coney Island, the Wonder Wheel painted in bright strokes of blue and red against a cotton-candy sky, the beach below alive with umbrellas and sunlit waves. Next to it, a sketch of theBrooklyn Bridgecaptured from this very spot. The twin arches rise in warm-gold tones, the cables stretching toward a pale-blue horizon, Manhattan glowing faintly behind them.
I can’t help but stare. The drawings look alive, like they’ve caught the heartbeat of the city itself. Coney Island and the Brooklyn Bridge—the two places I’ve shared with her today, both captured here in ink and color. Two moments I never want to forget.
“Are these hand-drawn by a local artist?” I ask, picking them up carefully.
The man’s eyes gleam with pride. “You’re lookin’ at him,” he says, voice thick with the same Irish lilt I grew up hearing in the pubs back home.
We talk for a bit—nothing in particular, everything at once—the easy kind of conversation that only happens when two people recognize something familiar in each other’s voice. Our accents tangle, and Cat’s watching us with that quiet amusement I’ve come to crave.
“How much for the pieces?” I ask finally.
“Fifty dollars each, young lad,” he replies. “They’re fourteen by ten. That’s me sole income, mind, can’t make them cheaper.”
“Fifty dollars?” I repeat, eyebrows raised.
He straightens, defensive. “Aye. It’s fair work for fair pay.”
I shake my head quickly, holding up a hand. “No, sir. I didn’t mean it that way. I just… these are beautiful. Worth far more than that.” A pause. “I’ll take both.”
He blinks, surprised, then smiles and rolls them carefully into tubes.
Cat steps closer. “What if we take a picture of you two together?” she suggests. “You could post it later, maybe help bring him more business.”
