New York City. A dangerous place to outsiders who don’t know how to navigate it. To them it’s a grimy, dirty place where you can get mugged just by looking at the wrong guy. A city of sleaze and schemes. And yet they idolize it. It’s always fun to meet someone new, watch their face change as you talk. 

    “I haven’t seen you around here before,” the stranger will say.

    “No, I’m a New Yorker. Right from New York City, in fact.” I will reply, like always. A simple friendly grin turns to one of slight wonder. You’d never guess a smile could hide so much, but I know they think they’ve got me all figured out.

    “Well, I don’t envy you, you must come from strong stock to live up there.” Something along the lines of that, and then they leave and tell all their little friends about who they talked to. They make bets, how long will the poor, young girl last up there, she must have big dreams and no sense. Everything they think they know about me is wrong, I like it that way, though, it’s ather amusing. I’ve always lived in New York City…it’s home. It’s beautiful to me. I’m glad to finally be back after so long away. I finally get to see my friend.

      I live in a small apartment right along a busy street where there’s lways noise. I can’t stand silence. It’s a nice apartment, small and cozy, yet modern. I’m not one to flaunt my income, but it’s not a cheap place, and I’m glad my job pays well. Yet, I can’t help but be paranoid that I'll run out. First I’ll run out of talent, then I’ll run out of money, then I’ll run out of life. In my apartment, everything is white, except for the lightest tints of color in the furniture. I have my kitchen pressed against one corner, just to the right of when you walk in the door. Teal and white. My clear, oval dining table set away behind it, gold criss crossing legs, sunk into the white fluffy carpet. Six matching chairs with built in white cushions set around it. On the other side of the room a black, widescreen TV hangs on the back left wall. A curved, white couch, two small footrests. Under the TV is a white wooden cabinet, glass windows showing nothing inside, a fake fireplace turned off is set in the middle. A large window stretches across the left wall, white see-through curtains hang on either side. A narrow staircase set in the front left wall leads to a part of my apartment I don’t want to see yet. Instead I cross to a small altar beside the staircase, sunlight is slanting in through the window, illuminating the pictures and unlit candles resting on it. 

     I am a great contrast to the room, dressed in a long sleeved, black, wool turtleneck, dark jeans that widen near my ankles, and shiny combat boots, black and totally laced up. I stand there for a few minutes, then turn, grab my white, long coat, and leave. Everything I need I already have tucked away, and I do not wish to stay in that apartment longer than I have to right now. 

     I am an hour early, and he’s already there. He’s reading a dark, leather bound book I don’t recognize, so it must be new, and he’s tucked away in our usual booth in the back corner. This is a place I have always loved. It’s a small, cozy book shop and cafe, where you can borrow books and grab a coffee and a croissant. It’s almost like a second home to me, since I spend so much time here when I’m in New York. I like running my fingers along the covers, all so different yet they belong together. I love the sounds of quiet laughter and the smells of caffeine and old pages. It’s not loud or busy and there’s no disagreement at all. Our booth is in a corner, shelves on each side, a small window allowing us to look out, but refusing anyone who tries to look in. The table and benches are wooden, with soft cushions to sit on. It’s beautiful. I only wish he could see it all. As I take my seat across from him, he finally looks up. He knows I’ve been standing, staring around for at least five minutes, but he lets me take my time. He smiles, the same smile I’ve known for years, the only smile I believe is real. We don’t speak, except in hushed tones to exchange bland news and niceties.

     “How was your trip?” He starts, per usual.

     “Same as usual, all well here?” I reply.

     “Boring without you.” 

     “Still hanging out with that girl?”

     “No, I think I scared her away when I mentioned my rock collection.” I know he’s trying to be light and airy about it, but I see the sadness, something I’m usually not very good at. Seeing other people’s emotions was never one of my strengths.I still remember when he first told me about that rock collection. He doesn’t collect them because they look weird or seem different, he collects them because they are the same. He said, “Rocks like these will never let you down, and I don’t have to wonder about them because they are always the same. They’re the only thing I feel I know.” But I don’t mind, because I’m glad he’s like this. And I know perhaps I shouldn’t be, because no one should be devoid of the beauty that comes in so many different shades. No one should wonder what it means when someone says the grass is green or the sky is blue. But I am glad. I am glad because he can’t see it. He can’t see all the red in my ledger.