Toes frozen and lips chapped, we pointed our fingers towards the sky. Amidst all the light pollution in Manhattan, New York you could still see them, the stars.
I counted thirty two.
On a burst on spontaneity we’d bussed to NYC for shits and giggles and everything in between. By then it was nighttime and we had–cramped and crouched over our cameras–finished watching the sun set. Now we stood across from Manhattan’s beaming glittering skyline in mind-numbing coldness and heart-fuzzing company.
In 30 years, I remarked, this would be what we’d remember: impromptu trips into the city, staring out at the skyline. Silly wild moments and mellow quiet ones, flickers of dialogue that made no sense out-of-context. Soon we’d forget the exams and the stress and the bullshit, but we wouldn’t forget the shnow and spontaneity and the stars–
We had come up with different numbers. We must have miscounted. So we hopped back onto the ice-glazed blocks to count the stars again.