“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.


Featured photo by Matthew Kane on Unsplash.

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