Everybody tells me that she’s beautiful. Catch her in the summer, they say; she will be lovely and complicated and you will find her laughing irresponsibly in the cool depths of the mezzanine, or seek her in early March somewhere in the tiny kitchen as the sun sets outside and an adolescent spring flexes its muscles awkwardly to ward off the cold.
When I ask what’s so special about her, they say it’s her absoluteness, it’s her history, and it’s the way she knows the answers to questions you haven’t even asked yet.
They say she’s always moving, but she never leaves.
She’s the city that never sleeps, and I can’t wait to meet her.