Open Letter to the New York Boy

Dear New York Boy,
I've been to New York City three times, and the third one was by far the best. I've told a lot of people that, listing reasons like the snow, Carnegie Hall, the Phantom of the Opera, and the four story yacht, but what really made this last trip more exciting than the others was you. I risk sounding sappy on that, so I should add that those other things were incredible; you were just what pushed it over the edge.

I liked that I didn't want to fall for you at first. I was determined not to make a fool of myself. But because of the little things, by the time the other girls were teasing me about you, I wasn't too terribly, horribly, terrifically scared anymore.

I liked that you were confident. I even liked that you could be such a cocky piece of schist* at times. You might have talked like you were all that, but you were just as quick to laugh at yourself as I was, and since I laughed at you an awful lot, I guess that means you must have found your pride a little ridiculous as well.

I liked that you put up with my flaws too. Maybe even liked them. You dealt with me in my most ADD state: words spilling out of my mouth unchecked. Rude jabs and terrible metaphors jumbled together with obvious statements and awkward observations. And yet you never let any of those words fall to the ground in silence to be judged, stared at, dissected, and thrown out. No matter how stupid of a thing I said, you always had a response, even if it was merely shaking your head and laughing. You took one of my worst insecurities and made it feel okay.

I liked that you were strong. I liked that I could tell just by touching your arm. I liked that I couldn't knock you over and you wouldn't let me fall. But I knew if I wanted to, I could still say no and you would let me go. You didn't demand anything from me. On that basic level, I could trust you.

I liked that what we had, whatever it was, didn't have a name. It didn't call for a commitment. I knew the entire time that it would dissolve when we got back home and that was okay. In the moment it was still something and it mattered.

I liked the last time I saw you. When I glanced back over my shoulder as I left the hotel lobby. It made me feel like a character in a movie. A character whose story normal people only dream about living. I liked that it hurt a little too. Not enough to cry, but the stinging kind of pain like a chapter that had to close when it had barely begun.

I liked that we kept up with each other, texting constantly, for at least a week after we got back, pretending that it could last, even though I knew deep down that normal life would get in the way.

And I like that it did peter out. We only hear from each other rarely now. But I like that when I do get a text message or something from you, it can still turn a bad day into a good one or make a good one a tiny bit brighter. Because even though it's over, it happened, and to me at least, it matters.
Thank you,
Your New York Girl

*Schist is the kind of rock natural to Manhattan.