JONATHAN DANIEL GARDNER

East River Charm

Roy texted to say he was free. I fell for it again.

Roy runs a bar in Greenpoint. Roy does not write anything down. Orders lived in his head until they didn’t. Schedules were vibes. Chaos that kept the lights on.

We set a time. His place. Williamsburg. I had been awake for twenty-eight hours. I was doing what I usually do with that kind of time. Spending it badly. 

I looked down at my mirror to boost morale. An hour disappeared. I was late.

Roy texted. He got called in. Could we push it an hour?

Score.

I lay down and let the relief spread. I felt sharp. Morale at capacity. I felt capable. I let it remain a feeling.

Thirty minutes later he texted again. Done early.

I stood up too fast. The room faded to white. Steadied myself on the fainting couch. My vision lagged behind me. 

Shoes. Keys. Door. Wrong key. Same key. Right key. Locked.

Tried to slide down the banister. Moved two feet. Got a friction burn. Must polish railing. Ran down carefully, before the stairs could sum me up. Outside.

Cobble Hill was already in agreement with itself. People who arrived on purpose. They were rested. Calm. Had plans. Had backup plans. Knew who they were voting for. Read instructions. Ate soft-boiled eggs. Knew how to eat soft-boiled eggs. Doing just fine without me. 

I felt judged and ran to Bergen station. Missed a step. Thoughts came in my southern accent. The train didn’t mind. I did.

On the G toward Williamsburg. Roy texted. Could I grab wine.

Sure, I wrote. A task I could handle.

Nat wants red, he added.

Got it.

I got off at Metropolitan. Texted Roy for a wine shop.

There’s one a few blocks north of you, he said.

North was a direction I trusted. North star. North coast. North corner. North woods. Fixed points.

Walked to S 1st and Wythe. Headed north. Went eight blocks before my legs asked what we were doing. I texted again. 

I meant south, he wrote.

I turned around and walked fifteen blocks south. Punishment for belief. 

No wine. 

Coffee shops pretending to be open. People who cared about natural light. 

The map showed a wine store behind me, tucked into a narrow space I’d missed. A hole-in-the-wall boutique with a French name I hated and could pronounce.

Inside, the air was bottle-temperature and highfalutin. I picked out two aged Rhônes. A sure thing. Overpaid on purpose. The guy at the counter nodded like I’d done something right. I kept the receipt to leave out accidentally.

Roy answered the door distracted and smiling. Nat hugged me and took the bottles. She was already a little lit. Mid-thought. No intention of finishing it. 

A friend was coming over, she said. A woman she knew from somewhere. She lowered her voice. The friend had been hanging out with a Satanist that night.

“Like socially,” she said. “Not worshipping.” 

I nodded like I understood the distinction. 

She started blessing the corners. With wine. Or air. Or intention. It was unclear. She paused in doorways. Lost sentences. Picked them back up. Dropped them again. Roy floated through it all, calm.

We went up to the roof because they had a roof.

The sky was doing that thing where it pretends not to be evening yet. We sat on milk crates and talked about nothing important. Nat worried out loud. I reassured her, badly. 

The friend arrived.

She said hello like she meant it. Warm. Grounded. No Satanist energy. She sat next to me on a wooden wine crate.

I said things the way I say them. She didn’t blink. Something that required context I hadn’t given her. She filled it in correctly. I didn’t know what to do with that.

Downstairs, Nat drank more wine. Walked the apartment like she was checking on a dream. She started a sentence about curtains on the roof. Ended it in the kitchen. Roy shrugged. Nat was Nat.

The friend and I exchanged a look. Should we? 

We absolutely should. We left before Nat could finish another sentence about curtains.

Walked toward the water.

Wandered into a vacant lot. A small wooden platform faced the river, like someone had planned a future and stopped halfway. We sat and talked with our feet dangling. Then we lay back. Talked with our whole faces. The city made its noises. Boats passed pretending not to look back. 

We kissed. It didn’t require a reason. No adjustment necessary.

I walked her to her place on Greenpoint Avenue. We said goodbye like we’d done it before.

I got the G toward home.

On the train, nothing went wrong. I sat still. Held my phone. 

Watched the stops arrive in order.

Jonathan Daniel Gardner is a writer originally from the American South, who currently lives in Brooklyn, New York. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in The Brooklyn Rail, The Disappointed Housewife, Identity Theory, Maudlin House, Stanchion Magazine, and elsewhere. He holds a degree in Creative Writing from The New School and is at work on his first novel, In Moon I Keep You. Find him on Instagram: @jonathandanielgardner.