covid notes 1

Surely it was all around us in NYC that last week in February, hopping trains and catching cabs with us, lingering at loved paintings at the Met, eavesdropping during visits with Leyla, Chris, Sue, Hoagy, Charmaine, creeping around the Walter Kerr Theatre as we marveled, gobsmacked, at Hadestown, flashing us a wry smile at Bemelman’s Bar—you paid what for that martini?—dancing with glee as we sidled up to other diners for sushi and noodles, chortling when we both felt a tad off our last night, but it was the big night, the night of at lasts!—dining at Prune (whose doors would close within three weeks) and tickets for Cécile McLorin Salvant at the Village Vanguard—and that glorious night, nearly four months ago, was the last I spent away from home, and afterward, everything changed, and maybe it got me then and maybe it didn’t, but these things are mine, my fine and fond farewell.