shouting obscenities at one another, New York mayhem in its purest form. In the middle of all that ruckus and confusion, Grace abruptly turned to me and apologized. ‘It’s just that he looked so terrible tonight,’ she said, ‘so done-in. All the men I love are falling apart. It’s getting to be a little hard to take.’
I didn’t believe her. My body was on the mend, and it seemed implausible that Grace would have been so disheartened by John’s fleeting leg ailment. Something else was troubling her, some private torment she wasn’t willing to share with me, but I knew that if I kept on hounding her to open up, it would only make things worse. I reached out and put my arm around her shoulder, then drew her slowly toward me. There was no resistance in her this time. I felt her muscles relax, and a moment later she was curling up beside me and leaning her head against my chest. I put my hand on her forehead and began stroking her hair with the flat of my palm. It was an old ritual of ours, the expression of some wordless intimacy that continued to define who we were together, and because I never grew tired of touching Grace, never grew tired of having my hands on some part of her body, I kept on doing it, repeating the gesture dozens of times as we made our way down West Broadway and crept toward the Brooklyn Bridge.
We didn’t say anything to each other for several minutes. By the time the cab turned left on Chambers Street and started to approach the bridge, every ramp was clogged with traffic, and we could hardly advance at all. Our driver, whose name was Boris Stepanovich, muttered curses to himself in Russian, no doubt lamenting the folly of trying to cross over to Brooklyn on a Saturday night. I leaned forward and talked to him through the money slot in the scarred Plexiglas partition. Don’t worry, I said, your patience will be rewarded. Oh? he said. And what means that? A big tip, I answered. As long as you get us there in one piece, you’ll have your biggest tip of the night.
Grace let out a small laugh when she heard the malapropism – What means that? – and I took it as a sign that her funk was lifting. I settled back into the seat to resume stroking her head, and as we mounted the roadway of the bridge, crawling along at one mile an hour, suspended over the river with a blaze of buildings behind us and the Statue of Liberty off to our right, I started to talk to her – to talk for no other reason than to talk – in order to hold her attention and prevent her from drifting away from me again.
‘I made an intriguing discovery tonight,’ I said.
‘Something good, I hope.’
‘I discovered that John and I have the same passion.’
‘Oh?’
‘It turns out that we’re both in love with the color blue. In particular, a defunct line of blue notebooks that used to be made in Portugal.’
‘Well, blue is a good color. Very calm, very serene. It sits well in the mind. I like it so much, I have to make a conscious effort not to use it on all the covers I design at work.’
‘Do colors really convey emotions?’
‘Of course they do.’
‘And moral qualities?’
‘In what way?’
‘Yellow for cowardice. White for purity. Black for evil. Green for innocence.’
‘Green for envy.’
‘Yes, that too. But what does blue stand for?’
‘I don’t know. Hope, maybe.’
‘And sadness. As in, I’m feeling blue. Or, I’ve got the blues.’
‘Don’t forget true blue .’
‘Yes, you’re right. Blue for loyalty.’
‘But red for passion. Everyone agrees on that.’
‘The Big Red Machine. The red flag of socialism.’
‘The white flag of surrender.’
‘The black flag of anarchism. The Green Party.’
‘But red for love and hate. Red for war.’
‘You carry the colors when you go into battle. That’s the phrase, isn’t it?’
‘I think so.’
‘Are you familiar with the term color war ?’
‘It doesn’t ring any bells.’
‘It comes from my childhood. You spent
I didn’t believe her. My body was on the mend, and it seemed implausible that Grace would have been so disheartened by John’s fleeting leg ailment. Something else was troubling her, some private torment she wasn’t willing to share with me, but I knew that if I kept on hounding her to open up, it would only make things worse. I reached out and put my arm around her shoulder, then drew her slowly toward me. There was no resistance in her this time. I felt her muscles relax, and a moment later she was curling up beside me and leaning her head against my chest. I put my hand on her forehead and began stroking her hair with the flat of my palm. It was an old ritual of ours, the expression of some wordless intimacy that continued to define who we were together, and because I never grew tired of touching Grace, never grew tired of having my hands on some part of her body, I kept on doing it, repeating the gesture dozens of times as we made our way down West Broadway and crept toward the Brooklyn Bridge.
We didn’t say anything to each other for several minutes. By the time the cab turned left on Chambers Street and started to approach the bridge, every ramp was clogged with traffic, and we could hardly advance at all. Our driver, whose name was Boris Stepanovich, muttered curses to himself in Russian, no doubt lamenting the folly of trying to cross over to Brooklyn on a Saturday night. I leaned forward and talked to him through the money slot in the scarred Plexiglas partition. Don’t worry, I said, your patience will be rewarded. Oh? he said. And what means that? A big tip, I answered. As long as you get us there in one piece, you’ll have your biggest tip of the night.
Grace let out a small laugh when she heard the malapropism – What means that? – and I took it as a sign that her funk was lifting. I settled back into the seat to resume stroking her head, and as we mounted the roadway of the bridge, crawling along at one mile an hour, suspended over the river with a blaze of buildings behind us and the Statue of Liberty off to our right, I started to talk to her – to talk for no other reason than to talk – in order to hold her attention and prevent her from drifting away from me again.
‘I made an intriguing discovery tonight,’ I said.
‘Something good, I hope.’
‘I discovered that John and I have the same passion.’
‘Oh?’
‘It turns out that we’re both in love with the color blue. In particular, a defunct line of blue notebooks that used to be made in Portugal.’
‘Well, blue is a good color. Very calm, very serene. It sits well in the mind. I like it so much, I have to make a conscious effort not to use it on all the covers I design at work.’
‘Do colors really convey emotions?’
‘Of course they do.’
‘And moral qualities?’
‘In what way?’
‘Yellow for cowardice. White for purity. Black for evil. Green for innocence.’
‘Green for envy.’
‘Yes, that too. But what does blue stand for?’
‘I don’t know. Hope, maybe.’
‘And sadness. As in, I’m feeling blue. Or, I’ve got the blues.’
‘Don’t forget true blue .’
‘Yes, you’re right. Blue for loyalty.’
‘But red for passion. Everyone agrees on that.’
‘The Big Red Machine. The red flag of socialism.’
‘The white flag of surrender.’
‘The black flag of anarchism. The Green Party.’
‘But red for love and hate. Red for war.’
‘You carry the colors when you go into battle. That’s the phrase, isn’t it?’
‘I think so.’
‘Are you familiar with the term color war ?’
‘It doesn’t ring any bells.’
‘It comes from my childhood. You spent
Similar Books
