“Actually, no. There weren’t gift shops where they went. But that sounds really nice,” I tell her. I search through each snow globe keychain. She’s right. Her name is nonexistent. “I guess you’re right. Sorry.”
“I’ve accepted the fact that I’ll never have my name on a license plate or keychain,” she says. “Don’t let that stop you from getting one, though. I’m getting this pen!”
I clutch the snow globe in my palm. “As a memento for this trip.”
“Yes. A memento.” Another grin takes over. Somehow seeing her happy makes me happy.
I pay for my “Jack” keychain, as well as her floaty pen. We keep walking with our new souvenirs in tow. Just a few blocks outside of Times Square, we’re back in the darkness.
“Why did you bring me there? That was horrible,” I joke. “Aren’t you glad you said yes?”
“I’ll admit it was better than I anticipated,” she says, “even though we didn’t get your picture with Buzz.”
“Or find your stringmate,” I add. Saying this out loud feels weird for some reason. I don’t think I like it.
Rooney raises her eyebrows. “I don’t know. Did you see Elmo? We look like we’re made for each other,” she says with a laugh.
“Now that’s the picture we should’ve gotten. I guess toys and superheroes have to sleep, too,” I say. “New York wouldn’t be New York without Times Square. You take it for granted. It’s like how we take the moon for granted. There’s literally a natural satellite right there. How often do we stop to appreciate that?”
“Not often enough,” Rooney says with sincerity.
When we pass by lit storefronts, I see that her cheeks are rosy from the cold and power walking. How did I end up sharing this night with a beautiful woman? I shake off the thought. She’s practically a stranger. My pseudo–tour guide. My smart and charming city chaperone.
“What’s something cool that you’ve done?” I ask her.
Rooney laughs. “Wow. Here comes the identity crisis. Uh, I once received painting lessons from this incredible artist who paints these iconic abstract landscapes full of vivid color using objects she finds in nature as her paintbrushes. She even makes her own pigments and paints using colors she finds in the wild like petals, leaves, and berries. Cool, right?”
“Sounds resourceful.”
“Long story short, I now have a painting hanging in MoMA. Oh, sorry. That’s the Museum of Modern Art.”
I chuckle. “I may not know a lot about New York or art, but I do know what MoMA is.”
I must look impressed because she quickly explains herself.
“Well, technically the piece is hers. I’m not even credited or anything,” she says, waving her mittened hands in the air. “All I did was use daisies to swipe butterfly pea flower paint onto the canvas.”
“To represent water?” I ask.
“It was actually for a painting of Mars,” she says.
My ears perk up. “So they’re not Earth-based landscapes?”
“Not always. The sunsets are blue on Mars. Did you know that? I thought that was the coolest thing,” she says, her voice dreamy. “That’s why I chose the pea flower.”
She’s clearly excited by this. I don’t have the heart to tell her that I do, in fact, know this about Mars. That it’s because of the iron oxide in the atmosphere that scatters the red wavelengths of light, leaving room for the blue light to have its moment.
“Sounds like not all sunsets are the same,” I say.
“Like snowflakes,” she says, looking up at one that’s landed on her dark brown eyelashes.
“I want to see the painting,” I declare.
“Too bad. MoMA is closed right now.” Rooney reads the streetsigns. “We’re not far from the museum. About eight or so minutes from here.”
We pass darkened store windows with steel gates pulled down in front. I’m not used to being out past 10:00 p.m. Seeing the bones of a city without life breathed into it is unnerving. Like intruding on someone when they’re not ready for guests.
We cross one avenue over and are no longer alone on the sidewalks. Rooney’s pace slows. Her attention is directed toward the large white modern building across from us. MoMA. It’s big but unassuming, plopped halfway down the street. Not even on a corner.
