one night a week in summer, we board a red number train on the upper west side and barrel beneath the east river and emerge a world away in brooklyn heights. we walk sidewalks trimming streets with names like pierrepont and henry and joralemon and we peep lace curtains and enviable stoops and secret gardens. we make way west, towards the water, towards the sun, towards the skyline we could trace better than the back of our own hands. he plays a match, i lick an ice cream cone, we marvel at the backdrop of something so ordinary. the wind picks up and the warm light floods june's roses and he reaches for my hand on the walk back to the red number train that will carry us home.
-- tiny details weaving themselves into the fabric of our days.