It was about 8:04pm when I saw him racing up the stairs at the York St. station. His short wavy dark brown hair settling in layers commencing from above his eyes and rippling onto his cheeks. I felt my face assemble into an awkward expression as I tried to conceal the goofy smile that crept up on my face. I hugged him, and he engulfed me in his strong arms. The smell of fresh linen and delicate musk danced between us. We walked in soothing silence. Watching the golden sun fading into the night sky, I would occasionally steal glances at him. I haven’t seen him since he walked me to the bus stop that night. Lugging my bright red suitcase around for me, as he and I conquered the galleries in SoHo, watching the bourgeois and the pretentiousness linger around a stale body of work. We giggled boisterously and judged them for being “bougie.” We then were on a voyage in Chinatown, eating at a beautiful red and gold place dimly lit. The tables and chairs huddled together. The smell of fresh herbs and spices tickled my nose as we settled at our table. I opened the menus as he and I debated what to eat. He was sure what he wanted. I was weary. I looked at him, holding the list, his dark eyes dodging the lines, and his mouth half pursed and half-open. The rest was a blur, I remember the feeling though. Like a variety pack of tea. When we walked to the bus stop, we talked, laughed, and waited. He waited for the bus to leave. And I waited for his call.

We made our way around the Brooklyn Bridge Park, scavenging for a spot. The park was unusually dead. The drafts of breezy wind falling through the trees and tackling the back of my neck. The waves swished and swooshed in an unbroken rhythm onto the oddly stacked rocks. He cracked jokes in attempts to make me laugh. We settled on a bench surrounded by a hut of trees and agreed it was an excellent spot to blaze up. We cautiously crushed; every so often, he looked behind me and me him making sure the coast was clear. I started rolling, placing each piece of the smelly lackluster green substance in its rightful place, slowly compacting the weed, as I listened to the notes of his voice, ranting on about AutoCADs and music. I had held a masterpiece to his eye level, “Finessed!” I flicked the lighter on. Lighting the joint. I kissed the end where the filter was . . . Inhale. Clout. Hold. Exhale. Everything was serene. The world faded into oblivion. Just him, I, and the view. I appreciated the dark night, as I was laying into his body with his arms around me and my head on his heart. He was cradling the pieces of my broken heart, mending them together, holding me together. He was my escape, a universe away from mine. The fluidity between us as we inhaled Brooklyn.

Amina Fofana is a BFA Photography and Video major from the South Bronx. Amina enjoys the value of words and the rhythm of poetry in an image-filled world. She was mostly inspired by Pablo Neruda and Maya Angelou.