At 4 Times Square, “The New Yorker,” he stopped and looked up. Like a fucking monster he thought. There was a revolving door in the throat of this dragon where people spun in and spun out. He knew he had to go there, turn with it. He breathed deeply through his nose, pushed his hair back and started walking slowly as if into battle. The revolving door was spinning faster now and it seemed he might have to dive. Within a few feet, in the blur of suits and dresses spinning in and out, a slow moving creature stepped casually out of the twister, high-heeled, black-skirted and business sexy, it was her. She walked past him and toward the light of the sidewalk. He couldn’t move but a shout rose up through him from all over his body.
“Excuse me!” he yelled.
She stopped then turned slowly, her auburn hair shifting from her back and flipping over her shoulder and coming to rest on her silk blouse and covering her right breast.
Their eyes created a tunnel between them that rotated slowly as each read the other’s face, he reading a sonnet, and she studying the strong contours of his face.
“It’s you,” she said, “it’s really you.”
They moved toward one another and all the space between them was vacuumed away.
The multitudes on the sidewalk disappeared. The millions of people with their designer clothes and stress and needing to get there and keeping time with the march.
They held each other and she whispered, “I’ve been dreaming of this.”
They knew each other, had known each other, would know.
Morgan stepped about five feet away, and before Olivia could ask, he jumped toward her.
“What’re you doing?” she said.
“A friend of mine told me it takes a leap of faith.”
She looked at him and smiled.
“Let’s go somewhere,” he said, “anywhere.”