The longest day of the year and I almost spent it indoors. Honestly, criminal.
My roommate's coworker was throwing a thing on a Lower East Side rooftop and I went purely to avoid doing laundry. Took the J train to Delancey, climbed five flights of stairs that nearly ended me, and emerged onto a tar roof full of people I'd never met.
I'm not naturally a stranger-rooftop person. I do the thing where I find one familiar face and barnacle myself to them. But my roommate vanished within minutes, so I was forced into the open sea of small talk.
The summer solstice has this trick where the light just refuses to leave. At 8:30 it was still golden. At 9 it was that bruised pink that makes the whole skyline look like a film set. Everyone went quiet for a second when it really started to go, the way crowds do when something is unexpectedly beautiful.
A guy from Detroit handed me a beer I didn't ask for. An older woman who'd lived in the same LES apartment for thirty years told me about when the neighborhood was all garment shops, which made me, fashion girl that I am, lose my entire mind with interest.
This is the thing about a summer solstice on a rooftop. The day is so long it tricks you into being more open than usual. Like the sun won't let you go home and waste it.
I thought about how in Ahmedabad we'd fly kites for Uttarayan, the whole sky a war of colors, neighbors yelling across terraces. Different festival, same instinct — when the light is good, you go up high and you share it.
By the time I left I had three new numbers in my phone and a sunburn shaped like my tank top straps.
The J train home was warm and slow and I didn't mind one bit.
The longest day deserves the longest yes.
Love,