The rum they gave us at the Hawaiian pop-up market smelled of fermenting bananas and chemicals, and of course I drank too much of it too fast. Not a lot, but I’m a lightweight these days, so it swirls around in my body like an oil projector for a good while afterward, distracting me from the words I’m trying to read. We lie on the grass in Washington Square Park, Katie napping in the dappled shade of the new blooming trees, me failing to make any progress in my book, finally giving up and watching the beautiful people walking in the sun.
A group of young men glide swiftly by on skateboards, weaving in and out of the Sunday strollers, their narrow, wiry torsos defiantly bare, and one of them, in an incongruous Army helmet, turns and gives me a grin as he speeds past, as if daring me to stop him when he’s already gone.
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