BY MICHELLE ELVY
‘Come on down,’ she said and he did. Hopped right on a plane after a two-month romance which began online. The electricity pulled him right round the globe, from the safety of the frozen north to the uncharted waters of the South Pacific.
It was good, too. They surfed on virgin beaches by day and watched phosphorescent dolphins by night. He was lulled to sleep by the sound of midnight waves and her deep sea voice. She was soothed by his big man laugh and laughed at his big city stories, the ones with Lenny, Scanio, and Bruce.
But soon the red curry sun and coconut cream love wasn’t enough. He found himself longing for home.
‘You could come with me,’ he said, ‘skate down my favorite hill with a view of Manhattan, see the world from the Staten Island ferry, eat lemon ices.’
She puckered her lips, thought how could you not love a place called Bliss Park?
‘Yes, I think I could,’ she whispered.
He told more of his street where polka and soul sang on the same summer breeze, where a foghorn came through his early morning window — the same foghorn Walt Whitman heard when he was writing. He described all that he longed to share with her.
She wrapped her blue shawl tight around her shoulders, leaned into him. She loved these stories of Whitman and polkas and Italian ice. But they belonged to this Brooklyn boy, and she belonged here.
Note: This story first appeared at 52/250 and is reprinted here with permission.