His blue denim leg, a strong and confident limb, grounded itself into the edge of the sidewalk. The pressure was there though the sneaker barely touched the granite. As the red-haired girl below his careless arm touched her left cheek to feel the oil and dirt, he told her the light would change in a moment; if the color were true they’d cross. The stationary girl leisurely looked up at him, brushing red hair from her eyes, and expressed displeasure at the faded green of the light. They might have stayed there longer, waiting for a hue full of depth, had a sixteen-year- old youth not have “zinted” past the summer-erected traffic light. His Irish hair had caught fire long before he lured Denim and Red across the street. To cross Bleeker Street they first had to notice how his fiery, dead-protein hair had been blown by the dirty afternoon wind.

Someone’s sister "ankled" past the “We Need You” sign between the “walk” and “don’t walk.” Her hair bled into the air even if it did return some of the dark liquid to her shoulders.

Perhaps the waitress outside the window didn’t think she was pretty. She had a subtle and classic kind of beauty, the kind only certain women have. Then the endless shades of style, of balanced beauty or style, eluded me, as the variety of possibilities eluded me. One man outside the open window had an almost-beauty or style—something there, but not polished or original. Then it struck me that the “tishtatically” serene and handsome 28-year-old man who ordered a mild dish, pears, crackers and cheese, might have done so to keep his complexion fair.

Eight o’clock, only 20 minutes away, would mean my having to leave. As I thought of the brevity of the meditative hour, a mild, orange hint of a sunset “backgrounded” itself, behind the slightly still tops of trees just two blocks away. The curving black neck of a street light structure, silver in darkened disguise, held itself aloof from sky and trees.

Before parting, she made him softly peck, first her right cheek with his lips. So near her eye, his brief kiss left its impression. Out of necessity, he rid himself of another wimpy kiss. This time her other cheek, the one left, absorbed brief lip and quickly turned with face, as he backwardly walked away from her. His black jacket’s leather would meet dark air an hour hence and would forget the girl standing near, in front of the traffic control box. The faded and refaded concert bills, posted years ago, told of the box’s oblivious presence. The girl thought for a minute that she would stay there leaning on the dark green box for a few minutes, thinking about his customarily brief kisses. She looked straight ahead at the entrance to the café for about an hour. Noticing the rain was beginning, she hugged her shoulders and slowly walked to the station.

This had been her only afternoon with him in over a month. How brief it had been. She wasn’t exactly surprised when he had said good-bye an hour after he had said his weak hello, but she had hoped that maybe, a month was long enough to make him remember the words he had yelled at her from the street. His had been rude words, harsher than she had ever imagined they could be. She descended down into the subway and left the street’s thoughts high above her head.

May 15, 1979, Tue.