Outside I hear voices. I go up to the roof. The city is black and blue and starlit and far, far below me. A wall around the perimeter stands about waist high, and on top sits a single row of glass panes, a giant windshield. They are like factory windows – large imperfect slabs that open with a latch affixed to the cil and rotate on a center axis, pushing one half outside and one half inside, leveling with the horizon and disappearing almost completely, if you’re looking at it just right.
I pull one open and shout.
“Goodnight!”
Two men on the street look up at me and shout back, mockingly.
“Goodniiiiiiiiiight” they crow.
I drop the window SLAM shut and run to the opposite corner of the roof, nearly an entire city block, and pull another window open to try again.
The two men are there, waiting below like they knew I would come.
“GOODNIIIIIIIGHT” they shout up at me before I’ve even drawn in my breath.
I stare at them, and they stare back. I return to bed defeated. No good goodnight for New York tonight.
