she. (3rd)

(mid-day sets, the day hot and stuffy. the humid air is like the remains of a sauna, except it smells foul, like fried goat. new york is that unkind during the summer (or spring, whatever) and gabriela cools by sitting on a ledge, bare legs dangling. huffing, she brings a hand to her eyes and thinks of "bumbling babes, lurching buses" and "freckled blue-eyed boys".)

you. (2nd)

people trickle out the many buildings, each and everyone minding their own business, none who look up to spot you. but that's okay, no one wants a scandal like the one fifty years ago, back when you were stupid enough to stand on ledges and peer through the curtains of your then-long hair...and wave. now, all you do is sit and recline against the concrete wall, watching with little to no amusement the new yorkers you know and love walk by.

irritated, you squint at the sun in hopes it will go away, squint at the people. kick. only a boy looks up, an adolescent.

you bare your teeth in an almost threatening smile, holding up your hands and bending your fingers slightly. he gapes but doesn't return the greeting. you pout, then slump, elbows propped against your knees.

"don't jump!" he hollers.

"what did you say?"

"i said, 'don't. jump!'"

his eyes are wide, and he waves his hands up and down in a poor attempt to express his outrage at the sight of someone who is perhaps considering to off him/herself at the present. not that you were, anyway; a fall like that would only tickle your insides.

"i wasn't planning to," you reply.


it takes much convincing to get the boy to come up. he's not particularly trusting, nor is he at all excited to sit on window ledges, so it all comes down to a compromise: "i'll go up if, and only if, you come with me and sit on a park bench like a normal person for a few hours."

there's no use arguing. it wastes energy you could be using for sitting--sprawled--on a nondescript bench in a nondescript park, thus you agree.