Grand Central Tire Chase

I dreamt that I was at a party at your house in the country, and you weren’t there. People were playing Capture the Flag on the lawn, and great slabs of meat were being grilled over a fire pit by the side of the house. A band was playing light jazz, and men were smoking pot in the corner out of a giant crystal bong. A young girl asked me to play bocce, but I said I’d rather play at tires. I thrust a tiny tire, half the size of one from a child’s bicycle, up in the air and watched it fall over the cliff into oblivion. I burst into tears.

Someone took pity on me and drove me back into town. I raced to Grand Central in my pink sundress and on the way into the main lobby I felt my ankle give way. I slid across the marble floor until I hit the Trevi Fountain and my dress got wet. I looked up at the water pouring down and out came the little tire, beaten and torn from its long journey but unmistakably mine.

I limped out of Grand Central, eye makeup running down my face, my hair wet and straggly, the hem of my dress filthy, and on the way onto Lexington Avenue there you were. I leapt into your arms and showed you the tire. You hugged me back but then confessed that you didn’t know who I was. I disentangled myself from you and, looking down, walked slowly downtown.