Olalla Levi
The air around me scratched my neck as my hair flew away in the chilly mid-November breeze. My outfit had been meticulously planned, running through my mind all the previous week: my father’s black, oversized leather jacket layered perfectly with my cozy black Ralph Lauren polo. Hanging underneath, my white ironed jeans were accessorized by a pair of leather platform Docs. I made my way down Eighty-Sixth Street and up Broadway towards the park, disregarding the blaring signs of traffic lights as I carefully analyzed the reflection on my phone screen. Through the shutters of my camera, which displayed the faults in my complexion, I estimated my proximity to the park. Pulling my face away long enough, I read “Central Park West” plastered across a green, dangling sign adjacent to Orli’s building. I perched myself on a bench to the right of the park’s entrance and awaited Orli’s arrival. I could feel the rim of my blue surgical mask rubbing against my skin like sandpaper and quickly drew it down towards my chin. I could feel the mosaic of beige, sandstone bricks that decorated the building across the street stalking me, and its windows shut tight pulled me deep into their mirroring night sky abyss. I met the prying eyes of the rat who sat by the trash, politely ingesting the last of his McDonald’s happy meal. The lamppost on the corner showered me in its harsh gaze and I felt suffocated as the willow trees behind me that used to wave a lengthy, brown branched hello just a few years earlier, sent their roots breaking through the stone Central Park sidewalk beneath me, wrapping around my legs and pinning me to the bench. Budding bottle caps and late-night excuses for my mother seemed to bloom as the limbs of the tree further entangled me within them. I heard my name being called. My eyes regained focus and I saw Orli making her way down the block. She stopped, towering over me. She stood, black bodega bag in hand, awaiting the usual, unnecessarily dramatic best friend embrace. Swaddling myself in her warmth, I submitted to her contagious sense of carelessness. I sat as she reached into the plastic bag and handed me the bottle. Its cold touch sent a reparative shiver through my veins that seemed to wipe my mind of all and any prospect of responsibility. Next, a sip, and I found myself frostbitten, numb all over, as I exhaled white air out into the 40-degree November night.
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