I'm back in the space where I used to lay. I'm sitting in my bed in my apartment in Manhattan. In the apartment I still rent. For a month and three days, I'm bi-coastal.
The smells are familiar. The soap from my roommates' bathroom. The trees across the street. The stillness of humid summer air in the stairwell. I've missed this city.
When I first got back to LA, I immediately felt the absence of skyscrapers and beveled windows. But my time here was so short relative to my life there that moments arose when I had to remind myself that I once lived in this city. That I used to be a New Yorker. I was so happy to see my friends who had celebrated my departure with hope and encouragement. It felt right to be back but now that I'm here again, I'm all goopy inside. And it's not the H and H bagel with cream cheese and smoked salmon I just devoured. Nor is it the jet lag. It's the ache of knowing that I will have to leave brokenhearted.
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