My friend is leaving New York. Not dramatically. No fight, no rock bottom. Just a job in Chicago, a lease she won't renew, a life that made sense to move.
We had our goodbye dinner in Astoria this week, at the Greek place on Ditmars we always end up at, the one with the lemon potatoes I think about at inappropriate times.
Here's what nobody warns you about New York. The friends leave. Constantly. This city is a train platform pretending to be a home. People stand next to you for a year, three years, and then their train comes and off they go, and you're still standing there.
Saying goodbye to a friend who's leaving New York is a specific ache. She's not dying. She's a text away. But the version of us that took the N train home tipsy at 1am, that split a knish on a bench in Astoria Park, that shows up unannounced — that version is over.
We both cried into the lemon potatoes. The waiter pretended not to notice, which in Astoria is its own act of love.
We met three years ago at a rooftop thing in LES I almost didn't go to. She was the only other person there not performing. We clung to each other like life rafts and never stopped.
When a friend is leaving New York, everyone tells you it'll be fine, you'll visit, it's the same time zone. And sure. But I know the truth. Distance edits people out slowly. Not all at once. Just a few unreturned texts, a birthday you catch late, until one day they're someone you used to know.
I don't want that for us. So I'm going to fight it. Voice notes. A visit before winter. The unglamorous maintenance of love.
We walked to the Astoria Blvd stop after dinner and hugged on the platform until the train came, of course it was the train, this city has no subtlety.
She got on. I stood there.
New York keeps loving me and leaving me. I keep letting it.
Love,