one
Colt Darling
Being jostled about in the shoulder-to-shoulder crowd is anything but festive. I came for a little holiday cheer, only to find myself squeezed between a family bundled in warm winter coats, a cluster of college girls, and a group of friends in their thirties, all of them trying to get closer to the food truck that sells the viral trend of the season, some chocolate drizzled, candy cane dusted, giant marshmallow stick.
Another tray of them is set in the window, and the volume around me rises, the crowd surging forward. The idea of a line is laughable.
In the chaos, I’m shoved aside, toward a smaller stall where a little round lady stands behind a counter heaped with crochet items. It’s not as packed here, but the entire holiday market is crawling with people, so some of the marshmallow hopefuls spill over in front of her.
I give her an apologetic smile, since she’s probably losing business by having her stall blocked by the sugar-hungry crowd, but she’s barking at some guy who stepped back from her counter with a bundle of pink crochet in hand.
“You have to pay for that,” she yells.
“I’m paying, chill,” he says, reaching for his wallet.
A jolt goes through me, but I’m sure I’m hallucinating. There are millions of people in this city, and unlike mine, his accent is not out of place here. But there’s something…
My first, cowardly instinct is to turn and disappear into the crowd, not let him see me.
It would be so easy.
And so impossible.
When he reaches for his wallet, my gaze follows the path of his hands to hips my hands once held; when he looks down into his wallet, my gaze travels the curve of his neck, one my lips once followed in the dark.
Making a split-second decision, I push past a couple, sure I’m seeing ghosts but unable to help myself from double checking. I know I’ll never stop wondering if I don’t at least make sure it’s a stranger in his favorite Celine jeans, dark hair curled out the back of his cap and around his ears; expensive wool coat hugging his shoulders that somehow look even broader than last time I saw him.
Just as I reach him, someone knocks into me, and I knock into him.
His elbow shoots up, slamming into my solar plexus as he protects his wallet, probably thinking I’m trying to snatch it and run. “Watch it,” he snaps, turning away, his shoulder pushing me further back.
“You have to pay for that,” the lady in the stall yells again, over the noise of the hustle and bustle around us.
“Hey,” I say, grabbing his arm.
“What’s your fucking problem,” he says, jerking to free himself.
He turns, though, a fierce scowl on his face, like he’s still not above throwing a punch. When he sees me, he freezes, and for a second, we only stare. Everything stops—the crowd melts away, the lady yelling about the hat goes silent, the towering buildings and noisy traffic of Manhattan fade to black.
I find my voice first.
“Is it really you?” I ask, fighting back the flood of images that arise—watching him dancing on a rooftop, high out of his mind; drinking at the rock quarry until we could barely stand;waking in the middle of the night when he came to my house to ask for drugs—the last time I ever saw him.
“Is it you?” he asks, searching my face with just as much disbelief. I wonder what memories are flooding his mind right now, if they fill him with as much shame and trepidation.
“Hey,” yells the lady at the booth, waving her arm. “Hey, you!”
“What are you doing here?” I ask.
“I live here,” he says. “What are you doing here?”
“Shopping,” I say. “Fuck it’s crowded. Is it always like this?”
“Are you kidding? On Christmas Eve eve?”
“Yeah, you’re right,” I say. “Just figured I’d do New York shit while I was in New York. My cousin told me to come here and get some of those marshmallow things. It was this or sit a hotel room watching shit TV.”
“You should have looked me up,” he says, and I know he doesn’t mean it.
