i wake up to an angry stream of jimmy hendrix guitar riffs on L's satellite radio. it is sunday, late afternoon. my back is wet against the leather seat of his car. we park under whitestone bridge. the east river is a silver blur ahead of us.
"since when do you listen to hendrix?" i ask L. he smirks and says welcome back. "really now?" i persist. he ignores me and goes on headbanging and, when he thinks i go back to doze off, some air guitaring.
around us, the trees are still full of day. and when the breeze comes, the leaves rustle. i am reminded of childhood afternoons when mother and her female friends never let me in to a room where they just sat and talked - whispered, really - of husbands cheating.
later, a stubborn patch of clouds covers the sun and blurs the blue of the sky. i see L staring hard at the silent river. he looks like a prophet at a loss for words, unable to divine things. i dismiss the thought that L could have known that the strange man i've been seeing is, too, a hendrix fan.
we stay there, hardly talking, until the sunset starts to shine like a moon. to our right, a man by the bank, continues to fish. when he casts a fly, a long sigh susurrates in the air.
