i still love you

greenwich village, nyc

Sometimes I watch the rain, when it goes slowly like it doesn't really want to leave but the drops hang heavy in the clouds and fall like tears on elastic strings. There are a few leaves still to catch them, but their rattling is almost inaudible, drowned by the steady blue hum of the city. Mostly they are lost on the streets, then diverted by some ingenious system of ramps to end up God knows where. I watch the dancing of a puddle in the middle of Eighth Avenue, seeing the weight of a taxi made into shimmering concentric circles, waves swallowing the lot of tiny fallen angels.
"You look dazed," she says from somewhere.
"You look like shit," I say, without turning to look at her. She always looks the same. I hear a cigarette hit the pavement, and turn to see her grinding the ember into the concrete with the toe of her dull, black boot. "Those will kill you," I smile.
"So will you," she says, with a bit too much sincerity.
She’s dyed her hair again, this time bright yellow. Her blue eyes beam with the contrast, the same way they did the first night we met. I had been here a month, and she had just arrived.
“So how did it go?”
“What? The shrink? It went fine, I suppose. Talked to the man for damn near an hour and he tells me to get a hobby; a job and a hobby. Fuck.”
“You should.”
“And what do you suggest? Gardening? "
“I…”
“I don’t have a fucking garden. Cars? You know I’d kill for a nice car. There ain’t a hobby in the world for me. I like watching.”
“You still need a job. And I’m late for mine. Do I have to walk alone?” She turns and starts walking northward. After taking in the scene for another second, I jog after her.
Its getting dark, but as we round a corner, I read graffiti out loud.
“I still love you.” I say, staring at the faded red letters on the wall. She stops and turns, seeing it, questioning my intentions with her eyes. I start walking again and she stands there looking at it before turning to catch up with me.