Read Online Pages for You by Sylvia Brownrigg - Free Book Online
Authors: Sylvia Brownrigg
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carefully, did the same, following the crowd out to the station. Maybe, if she could stay a little longer among their New York numbers, no one would have to know that she was not, actually, one of them.
“W hat are you reading?”
A touch on her shoulder and Flannery forgot the many ignominies of the morning that had nearly derailed her. A touch on her shoulder and she turned to discover Anne—more vivid, alive, and striking than she had been in Flannery’s grainy reimaginings. It always seemed to be this way: there was always more perfection there, in that single person, than Flannery could realistically recall.
“Oh—just this,” she said, closing her book to show the cover of a volume of Julio Cortázar’s stories. As if she hadn’t spent half an hour choosing which title to display, one that might have the right combination of seriousness and surprise.
“Julio Cortázar?” An excited intelligence brought Anne’s features into even sharper focus. It was the right choice. “He’s fabulous. So eerie. But also humane. He was a big translator of Poe, you know.”
“The professor said he only just died.”
“Yes.” Anne stroked the cover with her fingers, as if to remind herself how the stories felt. “Let me guess. World Fiction?”
Flannery nodded, and they spoke, with the eagerness of readers, of fictional worlds—Cortázar’s and Kincaid’s and others’. Flannery’s thoughts and words already felt more rapid here. They had just launched right in, breathlessly, before Anne had ordered or unzipped. Eventually she did both, and pulled out her cigarettes.
“So,” she said, lighting one, “you found this place okay?”
“No problem.” Flannery had allowed herself over an hour to get from the train station to the café in the Village whose address Anne had casually suggested on the phone—“MacDougal, between Washington Square and Bleecker. All right?” Flannery had needed every excruciating minute of that hour in order to submit to a fiasco of misunderstood subway maps, clambering out at a stop many long blocks away, and finally, in a panic, getting into a cab for what turned out to be a two-minute drive to her destination.
“You know,” Flannery said, trying not to sound shy or stupid, “it’s great to be here. I’ve never been here before.”
“To New York? Never?”
“Nope.”
“Really?” Anne laughed. But it was a laugh of invitation, not a shutting out. “My God. Then what are we doing here?” She stood right back up again, without waiting for her espresso. She stubbed out her cigarette with a blunt impatience. “Come on! Let’s go.”
E verything was so tall in New York that Flannery felt insignificant. She’d always known she was insignificant, of course, but she’d never had the point made quite so graphically before. The buildings and noise dwarfed her, and the swerving, loud traffic made her shrink. Anne, on the other hand—small, intricately formed Anne, whom Flannery knew she could contain in her arms, could carry over any threshold they might cross together—seemed suddenly bigger.
“This is the only city in the world,” Anne said, her voice fluorescent, her eyes hectic with joy. In her tight black leather jacket and her black jeans, she was clothed right along with the crowd. “It’s the city all the other ones secretly want to be. It’s the one all the others chase after.”
Like you, Flannery thought, but all she said was, “You’re bigger here.”
“Everyone is.”
“No.” Flannery shook her head. “I’m not.”
Anne stretched in the sun-slanted street. They were walking down Broadway toward Houston, and the early light reached them in a way that made each step important. Everything was anointed by the light: the bored pretzel seller, the homeless shuffler, the graffiti-blasted subway sign. Storefronts opening with a clatter to begin their day selling music or jackets, used books or vitamins, camping gear or Italian sweaters. And two
“W hat are you reading?”
A touch on her shoulder and Flannery forgot the many ignominies of the morning that had nearly derailed her. A touch on her shoulder and she turned to discover Anne—more vivid, alive, and striking than she had been in Flannery’s grainy reimaginings. It always seemed to be this way: there was always more perfection there, in that single person, than Flannery could realistically recall.
“Oh—just this,” she said, closing her book to show the cover of a volume of Julio Cortázar’s stories. As if she hadn’t spent half an hour choosing which title to display, one that might have the right combination of seriousness and surprise.
“Julio Cortázar?” An excited intelligence brought Anne’s features into even sharper focus. It was the right choice. “He’s fabulous. So eerie. But also humane. He was a big translator of Poe, you know.”
“The professor said he only just died.”
“Yes.” Anne stroked the cover with her fingers, as if to remind herself how the stories felt. “Let me guess. World Fiction?”
Flannery nodded, and they spoke, with the eagerness of readers, of fictional worlds—Cortázar’s and Kincaid’s and others’. Flannery’s thoughts and words already felt more rapid here. They had just launched right in, breathlessly, before Anne had ordered or unzipped. Eventually she did both, and pulled out her cigarettes.
“So,” she said, lighting one, “you found this place okay?”
“No problem.” Flannery had allowed herself over an hour to get from the train station to the café in the Village whose address Anne had casually suggested on the phone—“MacDougal, between Washington Square and Bleecker. All right?” Flannery had needed every excruciating minute of that hour in order to submit to a fiasco of misunderstood subway maps, clambering out at a stop many long blocks away, and finally, in a panic, getting into a cab for what turned out to be a two-minute drive to her destination.
“You know,” Flannery said, trying not to sound shy or stupid, “it’s great to be here. I’ve never been here before.”
“To New York? Never?”
“Nope.”
“Really?” Anne laughed. But it was a laugh of invitation, not a shutting out. “My God. Then what are we doing here?” She stood right back up again, without waiting for her espresso. She stubbed out her cigarette with a blunt impatience. “Come on! Let’s go.”
E verything was so tall in New York that Flannery felt insignificant. She’d always known she was insignificant, of course, but she’d never had the point made quite so graphically before. The buildings and noise dwarfed her, and the swerving, loud traffic made her shrink. Anne, on the other hand—small, intricately formed Anne, whom Flannery knew she could contain in her arms, could carry over any threshold they might cross together—seemed suddenly bigger.
“This is the only city in the world,” Anne said, her voice fluorescent, her eyes hectic with joy. In her tight black leather jacket and her black jeans, she was clothed right along with the crowd. “It’s the city all the other ones secretly want to be. It’s the one all the others chase after.”
Like you, Flannery thought, but all she said was, “You’re bigger here.”
“Everyone is.”
“No.” Flannery shook her head. “I’m not.”
Anne stretched in the sun-slanted street. They were walking down Broadway toward Houston, and the early light reached them in a way that made each step important. Everything was anointed by the light: the bored pretzel seller, the homeless shuffler, the graffiti-blasted subway sign. Storefronts opening with a clatter to begin their day selling music or jackets, used books or vitamins, camping gear or Italian sweaters. And two
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