Little Italy served as the backdrop to a colorful painting of love - new and old - that night in June. There was a wedding reception happening as we ambled down the street. First we, like normal pedestrians every where else, walked on the crowded sidewalks, some times single file, some times as a cohesive entity. It was loud and bright but it didn’t bother me. It made me feel alive. Every person, every trinket, every natural object gave off an aura of happiness - absolute delight that it existed, in this moment, in this wonderful city.
We walked aimlessly from one side of the street to the other, stopping randomly to point out something or the other to one of our fellows. We stopped for ices and gelatto. He hoisted me on to his shoulders so I could see the bride and groom taking pictures, surrounded by loving, doting family members who embodied everything Italian.
And somewhere along the way, our friends disappeared. They were off further down the street, I suppose. The music was still as loud as ever and the lights just as bright. We stood in the middle of the street and it felt as if we were the only two people left on Earth. You could see the stars in the Manhattan sky that night, I remember, only because he had pointed them out to me. He stood directly in front of me, told me his heart was racing, asked me to listen and so I obliged. It was racing. I looked up at him and smiled. He asked if his hanging around me all day had bothered me. He would bugger off if I asked. A bit taken back, I defensively replied, “No way, you aren’t bothering me at all.” He smiled back at me. It was one of those rare smiles with a quality of eternal reassurance in it, that you may come across four or five times in life. It faced - or seemed to face - the whole eternal world for an instant, and then concentrated on you with an irresistible prejudice in your favor. It understood you just so far as you wanted to be understood, believed in you as you would like to believe in yourself and assured you that it had precisely the impression of you that, at your best, you hoped to convey.1
Looking back upon the still frame photograph of that night in my mind, I see myself - an insecurely secure girl, wearing khakis and a black shirt, lovely dark brown caressing her face as a slight wind breezes past her on a humid summer night, looking up at a boy, a boy who told her that she made his heart race - and in that moment, I swear we were infinite. 2
1. F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby
2. Stephen Chobsky, The Perks of Being a Wallflower
