On the hot Upper West Side, I was rising from traumas’ ashes. We met. I made judgments—not: appropriate, attracted, well-aligned. I believed my stance secure until the 1 train kicked and I ricocheted into your red-and-blue-checked button-down. Romcoms are always New York subtle: the mocking glint of the subway pole, the casual way your jeans fit your legs, a wavering between up/down, horizontal/vertical. There was a bracing in embrace; you, like the subway, had unexpected force. There was a fool of myself. A phoenix is also called firebird. There was your blush, your stammer, your concern. Unexpected velocity bearing us.
Maria S. Picone grew up in central Massachusetts playing chess by herself and losing. Her chapbooks, Adoptee Song (poetry) and Among Others (fiction), are forthcoming. Website: mariaspicone.com Twitter and Instagram: @mspicone