Somewhere Along West 53rd

She was innocent like words in a Taylor Swift song, and she wore her heart on her sleeve. Tonight, however, as she was getting ready, she hummed Joni Mitchell with determination. She knew she couldn't uproot her heart, but she could let it blend in with the color of her coat, at least for the night. She bought it because the sales clerk on Park Avenue told her she looked stunning. While tonight's activities didn't exactly call for stunning, she couldn't resist the red.

They took in the museum piece by piece standing together at times, alone at others. She liked the way he paused to study certain paintings; Mondrian's Broadway Boogie Woogie, for instance. He peered through the painting like a marauder as if the connecting squares of color were and underground map to someplace mysterious. Clasping both hands behind his back, he rocked slowly up onto his tip-toes, suggesting that two inches gave him a completely different perspective. She wished she had a photograph of that.

Post-museum meander, he navigated her through Grand Central like a pro and then bought her a hot dog from a street vendor. She asked a stranger to take their picture, the only tangible evidence of the evening. She didn't believe in hanging onto other things like ticket stubs or museum brochures. She was slightly superstitious that way. Although she knew the photograph would end up in the corner of the mirror above her dresser next to an all too common-place post-it reminding her to pick up the dry cleaning, she wanted to remember how they looked that night.

Closer, said the stranger as he peered through the viewfinder.