I lead her downstairs to the Oyster Bar level, past the restaurant entrance to the tiled arches outside. The air is warmer here, echoing with low voices and footsteps bouncing off the curved ceiling.
"The whispering gallery?" she asks.
"You've done this before?"
"No. Have you?"
"No. But I've always wanted to."
I position her at one corner of the arch. Walk to the opposite corner.
Thirty feet away. Diagonal across the space.
The curved ceiling rises between us. She's small at this distance, framed by terracotta tile and shadow.
I turn to face the wall and speak quietly.
"Sam Morgan is distracting me from the architecture."
Her laugh echoes through the arch.
She turns to her corner. Whispers back.
"That was the plan."
Her voice carries clear as if she were standing right next to me.
When we meet in the middle, I pull her close and press a kiss to her temple.
"Best distraction I've ever had," I say.
She laughs against my chest. "Good."
I hug her tighter.
She tips her head back to look at me. "You're very good at this."
"At what?"
"Dating."
I smile against her temple. "We're not done."
***
The Brooklyn Bridge cables form illuminated geometric patterns against the night sky.
We're halfway across, the skyline glittering behind us. It’s cold, but clear. Distant car horns drift up from the FDR, a low, constant hum beneath the thrum of footsteps on the wooden planks. Sam's hand is warm in mine.
We stop. Turn back toward Manhattan.
"You know why I love photographing derelict buildings?" I ask.
She looks at me. "Why?"
"Because... light changes what you notice." I pause, searching for the right words. "You stop looking at what's falling apart. You... you see what's actually still standing. What refuses to disappear."
She's quiet for a moment.
