The chill in the air has settled in, finally, and songs about leaves waft from doorways, ours included. A man with a tambourine groans as he sits and stays put at the bottom of the subway stairs. People look to see if there's a place to give him money, but seeing none, they move on, brushing raindrops from bulky gray sweatshirts. And the man shakes his tambourine and the woman selling water ice doesn't show up to the station anymore and I'm drinking tea from red tin containers and football (football football, not soccer) is played in Irish bars. It's autumn in New York.
Has it really been two years since I first moved here, since I would get lost on the subway and end up somewhere where a man from Ghana would give me free chips and tell me how my wallet looked like it was from his country, which he misses but will probably never see again.
Our apartment is cold, which gives me ample opportunity to light as many candles as I want, and the light bounces off his brown sweater and my red dress and, after reverberating off ceiling corners, it zeroes in on us again, making us seem almost ageless, and in this moment, I am happy. Happy fall, friends.
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