New York City suffocates me in exactly the same way the string of Japanese deep-sea pearls I seldom remove from my neck do. I could take them off at any time- perhaps gently untwining their milky white loops from my neck and laying them into the velvet-lined pull-out tray of my vanity. Perhaps taking a fistful of the insidious beads and yanking for dear life until they all came crashing onto the marble floor, each pearl bouncing and rolling until it found a temporary resting place.
Under the bed.
In the crack between the open door and the wall.
Behind the porcelain toilet in the bathroom.
The would come to a temporary stop somewhere- anywhere but around my neck. Out of the corner of my eye, I eyed my luggage set sitting in a neat pile next to the wardrobe. I wouldn't even take everything with me. Just the essentials and some cash. Nothing mattered anymore, and nobody knew that better than I did.
My gaze faltered, and I slowly wrapped the pearls back around my neck and changed out of my nightgown. Intoxicating, but seldom plausible are my thoughts.
"Stupid," I muttered as slung my pocketbook over my shoulder and headed towards the front door.
On the way to the salon I pass the same homeless man who always sits on the corner of 66th and Broadway. He's dark skinned and older, would have been quite handsome if he hadn't experienced the hardships of the world at every turn. I greeted him in the way I always do, with some spare change and a smile. Ever since they day I took a moment to stop and hear his story, I've made the effort to acknowledge him, a courtesy not extended by most of the people in this neighborhood. A courtesy I previously wouldn't muster. His story took him from Chattanooga to the New York, but it didn't take him far enough. Not nearly far enough.
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