by jane katims
I find myself on 44th Street and 6th Avenue in Manhattan, in front of a gallery displaying award-winning photographs by students. I shade my eyes with my hand and peer through the window of the gallery — inside, a reception party is in progress, glasses of wine poured and passed around, animated conversation, laughter. A tempting sight, but I prefer to look in on it from the outside, prefer to be free to move away, to feel the spring air, and to let my own thoughts encircle me. For a moment, I stand on the corner, observing life on the street.
I wander down 44th. At the entrance of the Algonquin Hotel, a doorman nods, opens the glass doors for me. In the hotel’s large lobby-lounge, a woman with a beaded black jacket with sequins around the collar sits on a couch. Her legs are crossed, she holds a yellow iced drink. A man with a martini sits close to the woman, his arm around her.