He strolled down the street, holding his girlfriend’s hand, classmates scattered before and behind. The New York sidewalk felt rigid under his feet, stiff, cold. Buildings soared high above, blocking out the bleak sunlight. Glaring neon lights flashed half-ignored messages over him, painful on the eyes. A man in a grey suit with too shiny shoes bumped his shoulder as he rushed past in a hurry. Demanding, a neon red hand halted the little group at yet another straight, perpendicular street. The crowd stood restless, strangers arrested by that red hand. United by a common goal of that one crossing, yet distant, alien, alone.

            Across the street, the red hand disappeared and an impersonal little white man beckoned them forward. Anonymous drivers waited in their anonymous yellow taxis, waiting for the herd of strangers to move on so they could deliver their anonymous passengers.

He moved along in the crowd, still holding her hand, hearing the calls of cruel street vendors selling their cold, empty merchandise to any sucker who would give them money. The group of students paused, waiting for a few girls looking to waste their money on yet another unknown designer purse. Some of the guys grouped around a man hawking his new album; friendly to the point of obnoxiousness, distancing himself from his potential dupes. The group moved on, hustled forward by their teachers. Faceless stranger after faceless stranger passed, instantly forgotten. Would these strangers remember his group long enough to tell their wives and husbands over dinner? When he returned home, he wouldn’t be telling anyone about the thousands of people he had met and forgotten in his wanderings down the rushed avenues of the city that never sleeps. Not one of these people would remember any of the others they passed during their work day. More like the city that never meets.

And yet it didn’t matter. The smaller, warm hand in his reminded him that he had met the one person he needed. Even the classmates around him would be mostly forgotten like just another New Yorker. That hand in his made him warm in a city of cold pavement, cold signs, cold people. Closeness in a city of packed distance. Recognition in a foreign street. Familiarity in New York.