Bagels are carb-loaded hugs; pizza is a big, sloppy kiss.
I have to sit on my suitcase three times before it will zip shut. But there’s always more to add. It’s hard to leave New York in January.
I said no to every date, every advance, every fleeting memory that meant to turn into something more. And for what? So that I can fly back tomorrow night with a clear head. That part is harder, even as I get older and I become more definitive. I will probably always fumble at the airport, always forget which state’s license to give, though one is hole-punched and one has two faces.
You’ve never had that problem. And I hope you never have that problem. But what do I really know, years removed, or months removed, now just a digitized picture? I’m as real as any other mirage, except that I come complete with baggage - the kind you find circling a conveyor belt at SFO, waiting to go home.
And there are afternoons when it feels good to be a New Yorker, no matter where you are - moments so sweet and new that when you smell the dough rising from the street, you just have to buy a bagel. Maybe this, the correlation between scent and memory, is all home ever needs to be.
But there are other moments, moments when you’re drunk in a comedy show, and the couple in front of you is engaged and you just want to spill your wine all over their shoulders; those moments happen too, and they are equally important.
