Stephen Mejias

For the last couple of days, I've been listening to one special CD from start to finish, and over and over again. I don't want it to ever end. Elizabeth must be sick of it. I'm sorry, Elizabeth. But, no: she's not sick of it because she understands. She knows what this is all about. And when I'm not listening to it, I'm holding onto it tightly, smiling over the lovely cover of sweethearts and peaches, reading the song titles from top to bottom and then from bottom to top. Memorizing the shade of red, imagining her hands putting it all together.

The City was yesterday touched by twenty-seven inches of snow. In the Lower East Side, red, black, and green fire escapes were given pure, white highlights. On Orchard Street, a single figure could possibly be seen trudging through the heavy downfall, an umbrella in one hand, a burning cigarette in the other.