It was late June in New York,
humidity was at about 98 percent
and random rain storms
left my hair and face
in a state of disaster.

I looked like my mother
wearing curly hair and defeat
like it was summer's hottest trend.

Andrew said something about
us Californian kids being *******.
My lungs were too heavy to fight back.

"Just 10 more blocks,"
he promised,
as if that was supposed
to comfort me.

When we finally made it to his building
we walked up 7 flights of stairs.
Each floor served as a rest stop
where I would sit and make quiet snide
comments like,
"It's illegal to have a building
larger than 3 stories
without an elevator in California."

We reached his floor, the 7th heaven,
I threw myself on his air mattress
and he turned on the window a/c unit.

I slept until nightfall,
when I awoke
he had prepared dinner
and opened a bottle of Canadian wine.
Bob Dylan's The Freewheelin' spinning on
the record player.
(Andrew would later gift me that record as a parting gift.
And I would later listen to it
every time I thought of him
or New york;
It's still in heavy rotation.)

After dinner we climbed up the fire escape
to go smoke joints on the rooftop.
Andrew asked me how New York
was different from California.
I pointed out that you can't
see the stars in New York
but told him that the skyscrapers
that painted the ***** skyline
were surprisingly just as beautiful.

He smiled to let me know that
there was hope for this suburban girl yet.