I worried the distance would be a death sentence as I found myself alone in my best friend’s mostly empty new living room, 1681 miles from any possibility of weeknight concerts, impromptu G&Ts and sushi, Galentine’s Day, movie marathons, holiday gatherings, city adventures, beach birthdays, and drop-everything post-tragedy afternoons of comfort TV.
His closest friends at the time were those people who excel at throwing those parties that spill out of an artist's canvas of a house and should only exist as an amphetamine slideshow held together by ragged descriptions in Brett Easton Ellis novels.
Each near-miss is a reminder that I wouldn’t be so lucky next time. It does make me sad my friends are aging, though we learned all too well that age has little to do with mortality.
My brand-new iPod was my companion as I let New York take me in. And because I was writing my love letter to the city like my own personal movie, it needed a soundtrack.