Monday, August 3, 2015
Our twilight is reflected from the tall wall of the building on our terrace's eastern edge. The sinking western sun is hidden from us by more buildings, but bounces down to make the terrace a strange pink in the late August evenings.
The Nicotiana mutabilis are very tall, now, and speak unexpectedly to the pinks and apricot of the Agastache 'Acapulco,' also planted for pollinators and hummingbirds. Honey bees still besiege the calamintha, and when they leave, a single firefly blinks in the dying light.
Tomatoes are often on the menu, now. Stuffed here with rice and dill and little bits of leftover lamb (the lamb-less version is in my book). In the glasses, very cold prosecco with sliced white peaches from the tiny but excellent farmers market on Lenox and West 118th.
We still save up stories from our days, for supper conversation. The Frenchman tells me about The Man with the Dog, The Man in the Suit, and The Tide of Construction Workers - all regular and developing themes from his Harlem-Empire State Building subway commute.
Nights are hot, but the terrace always seems cooler. While we eat we listen to the small yapping dog whose location we have never been able to pinpoint. Occasionally, in the last few weeks, there is an eruption of angry shouting from the homeless shelter across the way. It used to be very quiet, but something has changed - new management, I think. We wait for Korean Air's Airbus A380 to lumber overhead, on initial approach to JFK - its wide wings and massive tail are unmistakeable at 13,000 feet. And sometimes the American kestrel perches at the top of the homeless shelter's fire escape and scans for careless pigeons.
City life. Day in, day out.