We wandered into the Brooklyn Botanic Garden as if in a dream.
To get there, you’re ricochetted underground in the slow heat and dark of the subway for almost an hour; the train reaches the last stop and you emerge into the bright of day like a pallid ninja turtle, and the minute, the goddamn minute you turn your bewildered head it is right there; you’re suddenly surrounded by tall velvety leaves, lush grass, majestic columns. I’d never seen anything like it. The entrance garden was nearly empty; a cool breeze shifted its colors, showing silver underbellies, pistils heavy with pollen like clotted cream.
“Whoa,” Steve said. “Whoa,” I said.
“Well this was worth the ten bucks,” he said. “I am drunk on photosynthesis,” I said.
The night before, we had taken too many shots of bourbon after a day already devoted to drinking; we had hunched despondently over the table in a glowing red bar, and then cried at each other at 2am when the G took a million years to arrive. “Are we going to talk about this now? I guess we’re talking about this now, the train’s not coming.”
Morning had come slowly, carefully. By the time we arrived at the garden, we only had an hour and a half before it closed: an issue that had caused me some stress before we left. But it was okay. It was all going to be okay.