I stand on the corner of 5th and 47th, drenched in shadow, the warmth and light of the morning sun devoured by the crowded towers of Midtown Manhattan, a forest of glass, stone and steel. Goosebumps spread across my bare arms and legs. The chill originates inside me, then radiates outward. It isn’t far from here that I think I once spotted you. A glimpse, and then nothing, as if you vanished into thin air while I stood dizzy and petrified on the street. A nightmare I can’t forget or ignore.
Whenever I leave my apartment, I’m aware you can find me. In a borough whose population swells to nearly four million during business days, there remains the risk that facial recognition will betray my whereabouts.
Then again, am I even an afterthought? You discard people so easily but are enraged when others choose to distance themselves first. You’ve either discarded me altogether or are hyper-focused on finding me, with blindness to all else. You’ve never liked leaving anything to chance, and you covet wealth with a deadly hunger. Did you ever really love me? Maybe as much as you were able. Maybe insofar as I belonged to you. I was an accomplishment, after all.
Before me, grungy yellow taxis and black SUVs clog the city’s arteries. Behind me, New Yorkers converge into an impatient huddle on the sidewalk, waiting for the moment we can all scurry across the steaming asphalt like roaches. The traffic noise blares from all sides, but my heart is pounding louder. In just a few moments, I’ll walk right past the building entrance that lures me against all sense of self-preservation.
I could avoid that gleaming sapphire tower. Take the next street over. Leave the city, state, country. But the perversion of obsession drives me to risk. It’s simply irresistible. I’ve been hiding for years but am slowly becoming more careless. Fleeing hasn’t afforded me a new life. I’m dead in all the ways that matter, except for breathing.
Maybe I’m done waiting for that final farewell.
The light changes. I move without thought, my ridiculous heels finding every rut and dent in the street, keeping me literally on my toes. The other women around me are more sensible, wearing ballet flats or block-heeled mules. The odors of car exhausts and sidewalk food carts turn my stomach. No one makes eye contact. No smiles are exchanged. In a city so alive its pulse beats against our senses like a battering ram, we are all automatons.
My name explodes into the air like the crack of rifle fire. Shock floods me. I can’t breathe, can’t think.
Defiance has a price – discovery.