I continued down 28th. A little girl in a denim jacket released her mother’s hand and waddled towards a waiting school bus at the curb.
Scaffolding was everywhere. It lined the blocks and shielded the ground from anything gravity or a less than careful window-washer might send down. With the smell of Indian food in the air, I saw the café up ahead. My mother waited, arms folded.
The buildings rose up from the graying concrete. They stabbed the sky.
“I hate this place,” my mother said. She wiggled out of her jacket and took a seat at the small table in front of the café. “This evil, fucking city. It’s the only place in the world where you can live and still feel like a tourist.”
I smiled, weakly, and ignored eye contact.
“You look tired, dear.” My mother arched her eyebrows: the right one rising a half inch higher than the left.
“Thanks.”
“No, really.” She reached a hand out. I didn’t take it. “Your face looks puffy. Are you using that Cle de Peau I sent you?”
My mother purchased a two hundred dollar facial cream while I was home for break and, over her fourth Long Island Ice Tea, warned me to never get old.
“Sold it for pot,” I told her.
“Why must you torture your mother, dear?” She reached for her water glass.
I shrugged. “What good is life if you don’t get to torture people?”
We picked at the lettuce and other green things in front of us. The check came. My mother sipped a twelve dollar cup of coffee and broached the dreaded subject.
“Are you still seeing that boy?” She cleared her throat and pretended it was a passing comment, not a judgment.
“We’re running off together,” I told her as I nodded my head too deliberately.