On A Sunday

We will wake to a fine Sunday morning; a bright sunlight happening into our windows, a cool midsummer breeze blowing the frail whit drapes. A new day will be at our fingertips. Life itself will be tangible.

I will open my eyes an be greeted with my favorite qoute. The words that helped reshape my life:"...More life. The great work begins." It is a constant reminder of the burdens life brings. My side of the bed will be littered with books, stacks five high. There will of course be the ever-present manuscript. Later in life it should hope to constantly be in the middle of this project or that project, or on some escape from the chaos of modernity.

"Coffee?" he will suggest, coming through the doorway. He won't expect an answer; he already knows the answer. The answer of, "but of course ." I will don a smile as I accept, grateful of his hospitality even though he helped buy this house. He will have brought the paper as well. It is a ritual; the habit of a relationship. We both fear the idea of rocking chairs and back porches. They are too reminiscent of our lives before the city; our childhoods spent hiding from bullies, and getting beat up on homecoming. They will remind us of the reason we escaped to metropolis, to modernity. However, the reason we escaped (not our sexuality itself, but its "fringe benefits") will be the basis of our love.

We will start with the real estate section, ogling all the houses we would really want to live in. We throw out auto and stock qoutes. When we finish our first cups of coffee, he goes to refill, and acquiesces to bring the pot back with him. He rests it on the scrapped sections of the news. We sit upon the bed passin sections back and forth. I linger on the book section and he furrows his brow, impatient. "What?" I ask, "I'm learning. Eat your english muffin."

Getting dressed seems tragic. Common knowledge states that morning pajamas are just about the mist comfortable form of attire on the green earth. But the sound of sirens brings us back from out dream of civil disobedience. The whole day in pajamas, could you imagine? We dress together. He isnt the kind of man who would suggest clothes for me, not even for my betterment. I'm a big boy, that's why he loves me.

Manhattan mornins remind me of Basquiat paintings. At once alarming, and at the same time there is something so fresh about them. Sun soaked bricks all covered with dog urine and chewing gum blackened by the soles of shoes. This is why I will love New York in the future, not because of its political correctness , or its constant avant-garde edge. No, I will love New York because in the summer it smells like urine and garbage before noon, when the sun burns off the haze. I will love New York for the same reason that those don't live here hate it.

We will walk along Bleecker, with no talk of the week ahead of us. Do we hold hands? Do we walk arm in arm? Do we need to make that kind of justification for our relationship? I should hope my fear of P.D.A. would have left me. We wil talk about our homes, the news, the trip we are going on before the school year starts again, and he is overcome with responsibilities at the university. He will tell me about his parents, I will tell him about mine. (They both say hello.)

I will force us to stop at the best coffee shop in the neighborhood. It will be a small hole-in-the-wall place, with no room to sit inside, and outside only a bench. The barista behind the counter will recognize me outside, my coffee waiting for me on the counter as I approach. I will get him coffee too, making up for the fact that he is the breadwinner half of the year. This will depend entirly upon how and when I am published. He will argue because it is the polite thing to do, but he is grateful.

The B-train (it will run on weekends in my fantasy) at West 4th street will take us up to Central Park. There will be conversation along the way. The friends who've called from far away, as well as business associated things, and the academic confrences that will darken our scheduals, our practical calendars. We will exit at 72nd street, remember the advertisment in the Times for a unit in the Dakota for $6 million. There will be an inappropriate joke about murder for those prices . The walk through Strawberry Fields will of course be a good one. And as always in Central Park there will be the far off odor of marijauna.

We will walk, paying homage to Bethesda. We will qoute Tony Kushner, stressing the qoute above our bed. Up the stairs and through the rows of benches we'll proceed. I will tell him a story he's never heard; one I've been saving. He will laugh at all the right place, grimace at the bad choice of words, and say the perfect thing when its all over. The man with the saxophone will have been, by this time, taken by life. But the city will immortalize him with a statue.

The sunbathers will be out by now, getting their own jump on the day. We will continue south, to 7th avenue. I will tell him about the friend I used to have in Midtown, also taken by time. He will tell me about his days in Hell' Kitchen, barely surviving on Ramen and soda. I will retell my days in Brooklyn, in what is now a trendy neighborhood.

We will return on the B-train. I will tell him about my newest idea for some story. He will start laughing, joking about how I get into the zone when I'm working. When we arrive home he will got to work preparing for this or that. I will tell him head up to the attic, my office. My dest will be covered in papers, stacks unreasonably high. My computer will look used, though it will be realtively new. The paint on the "S" nad the "Enter" buttons will have been rubbed away. I will set into motion writing something that will seem profound as I initially put it on the screen, but will ultimatly haunt me for the coming months.(Writing is rewriting.)

In and hour he will knock gently asking me where I want to go to lunch.