“Does my accent give it away?” he said
with a smile that lit up the dull-orange sky.
“No,” she said, “It’s fine. I’m sorry I said
that you can’t understand. But I mean it. You can’t.”
The smile fell away from his face.
“Oh, I see. According to you, only you
and your ilk ever loved a place. Only New York
is worthy of love.”
“I never said that,” she said, smiling, and
walked on ahead, looking over the Hudson. The lights
on the opposite shore made long trails
in the water. He came up behind her and stood.
“Love is old in the old world,” he said, and regretted
the sound of his voice. She laughed. “I mean this:
everywhere in the world, no matter how unloveable
it seems to be, people love where they are,
make it part of their souls.” Yet again
he regretted the sound of his voice.