Amelia had no way of knowing. She told him she would come but had no intention. Not that she would not but most likely would not go. By late August a New Yorker has no promises to keep. Why even make them then.

She had no way of knowing and no intention of finding out. He was not bad but she could do better. It could be fun but by late August fun had nothing to do with it. Amelia hated parties and even when she went she never really stayed. She could just go and what the hell. She left that at that. She guessed she would go. Not that that mattered.

There is something infuriating about shadows here in the summer. There are many shadows but not really any shade. Walking up West 4 Amelia felt fantastic. There were strangers she passed them and felt like she knew them and would never give them the time of day. It was high noon and just like a movie but with no angles. Amelia was no stunner but made for the summer.

Amelia had purchased translations of the Venetian of Veronica Franco on 6 Avenue. These translations had no value whatsoever but the typography seduced her and there were the phrases like Ecco che fuor d’un antro, or ch’io parlo, esce / coppia felice di due dame snelle, cui sempre star in un sol luogo incresce...Another East Coast cosmopolis with its loyalties tied up in trade and womanizing.

She found herself, anywhere. She had just finished L'inifini aux limites du calcul. Hilarious read. She was something else altogether. No surprises there. This would become the difficulty in her life. Nobody had anything on her. Yes and no. Yes and no. Amelia would scrawl across her notebooks out of habit. It had nothing to do with that. She knew it too. Now and then and now then. Amelia would scrawl this too. Impossible to listen and take notes. Just as well.

Amelia made her way rapidly with her eyes closed so that the sunlight and another thing from inside of her would flit across her sight. She imagined Chet Baker in his convertible under heavy snow. Cruising down 52nd with the top down. Her arms swung like those of a dancer or better yet a painter. This became her. Nobody knew but a few.

Listen. What do you want from me? Your mind always running and often away.

It went just as you would imagine. Light like matter and the street like any other but with her crossing. Every aspect marvelous and all at once over.  He had not thought of her in months and assumed nonrecognition. She had not thought of him nor seen him. It went as you would imagine but with precision. She wore a scarf and with the sun out. It would have tempered with the afternoon but for August. He had nothing to say to her. There were no coincidences.

Imagine things otherwise. Alternatives implausible as they are implacable. He could not place it. If he left the city. Wait at the light. What is the matter with you? Helicoids of particles go to where the light is.

It had other roots. His chin glistened and his concave face distanced. From half an Avenue away his physiognomy drew caricatures. Conceptions drifted further from confirmation. There were no thoughts but images. Phenomena modulated. Visuals transfigured aurally. Eventually an aroma as of a storm. It was last summer. Drops bigger than he had ever seen.

Then all over at once he had the face of a child. You have seen this in passing, not noticing. His face aged decades then.

Do the ends ever end? Sure. Just what has been must be.

Hours passed. Crepuscular August brings relief. It turns a tender shade. Then night and the debaucheries. Not that these are hard hours to waste under the polluted horizon hearing traffic and thinking of later. Not particularly.

What have you been up to? - Nothing really. I want to get out of the city. - Me too. - What you doing tonight? - No plans. - Hit me up. - Ight.

There were the sounds of the waves on the pier and there were the sounds from the Henry Hudson Parkway and there were the sounds of the crowds crossing and these sounds said nothing, some more so.