06/21/25

Crying on a Citibike

I regretted staying out as late as I had the night before. On my parents last night in the city, we had an incredible time at my usual omakase spot. Drinking sake and Sapporo and, at least on my part, enjoying the reactions of my mother trying three different types of Mackerel sushi after speaking at length of her distaste for the fish. Afterwards going to Commerce for another round of drinks. It was the perfect set up: we walked in and were greeted by all the regular suspects and sat at the largest table within the bar, which had been left unfilled despite the crowded Friday night room. As if they had been waiting for us. I introduced my parents to the friendlies that came up to our table and with great spirits we drank and laughed and I told my tales of Antigua. But I had other plans, so around 10 I said goodnight and goodbye and went home to change.

Turns out making plans to have a crazy fun night never sets you up to have one. This morning I got up, groggy, having drank too much and feeling a tinge of regret for wasting my time and ruining a good mood with a lack luster end to my night.

My mother texts me, as I muster up the energy to get out of bed, asking if I’ll make it down to their hotel in Chelsea to say goodbye. I had written them both a letter the week prior. Something I felt I needed to do as a milestone in my life was about to occur. I filled them with my heart and had been waiting for the right moment to gift them. I also thought that they probably had never received a handwritten letter and that they mustn’t have seen my handwriting since I was in school. I had no envelopes, who does these days, so I made makeshift ones with the same stationary I had used to write them. With the intention of delivering these to be read as they flew off, I put on a pair of Adidas shorts, an Aphex Twin Supreme t-shirt and some flip-flops. And walked to the Citibike rack down the street.

…

Riding through Central Park, I fly by runners and tourists on rent-a-bikes. Cyclists on touring bikes fly by me. The morning is as beautiful as it is hot. I begin to sweat as I reach Time Square. Taking Back Sunday and Jane Remover are blaring in my headphones. I brace myself coming down 7th Ave, the streets get gnarly around 38th street. I wonder whether there's a bike dock near the hotel as I come close to 25th street. But I discover it’s not necessary when I spot mom and dad exiting the coffee shop on the corner. They’re smiling. This makes me smile. I ring the bell on the bike furiously and yell to them. Only do they notice me when I get close to the sidewalk. I feel tears. I hold them back. I hand them my letters and give hugs and thank them for coming to see me and wish them safe travels. As quickly as I arrived I ride away with a flimsy excuse as to why I can’t stay longer or come up to their room before they check out.

It wasn’t until I was in the middle of the park again, that Wild Horses began playing and tears started falling down my face. It’d been awhile since I cried. I let them fall for the duration of the song, streaking across my face with the force of the wind. Siri reads out loud a text from my mother. I feel sick at the thought of Siri reading my mother’s heartfelt texts to me. Technology makes me sick. Will I remember Siri’s voice more than my mothers?

11:37 am

I run a punishing three miles in the heat. Down the west side of the park and back up until I couldn’t anymore. B texts asking if I want to sunbathe on her roof. My body, still reeling from the sunburn I got at the lake, says no thank you but I don’t and plan to meet up around 1.

At home, I rinse and put on an outfit that’s easily pulled off with my bikini on underneath. Biking once again, back down to Chelsea.

1:51 pm

Squeezed in the kitchen, B composes paper plates with crackers and cheese while A shows me the protein powder flavors I can enjoy after our tan session. I question why we’re going to have protein shakes after tanning. He ignores the question and jokes about the lame brand that makes the parachute pants he’s wearing, saying he saw an old man at a gym in Vermont wearing them and just had to buy them. I juggle a bottle of water, a towel, and a Coke Zero as we head up to the roof.

…

M and I made plans earlier in the day to meet for a drink at Commerce at 6. I leave B and A after two or so hours with the loose idea of seeing each other again later that night, heading back home to shower and inspect my tan.

5:55 pm

My apartment is a complete mess. Clothes strewn over every chair. Multiple pairs of my shoes scattered as if I had come home each day and flung them off my feet blindly into the room. On the kitchen counter, a variety of things I’ve used throughout the week and didn’t put back. Trying to get ready and every outfit I put on disgusts me. I wanted to wear shorts but I hate my legs. Every top either shows off too much of my stomach or is long sleeved. I stand in front of the mirror for too long, looking at my arms and the weird tan lines on my back.

I settle on a black knit halter top and a pair of black Issey Miyake wool pants that are a bit more cropped then I’d like. I don’t do my hair, letting the humidity style it however it wants. I text M and tell her sorry, I’m running late, I’m having a crisis. She says it’s fine, she’s just walking around, to take my time.

…

I arrive before her. J greets me at the door. Long time no see he says. I sit at the same table I was at the night before. E comes up and says hello, asking what I’m up to today, pouring me some water. I place my head in my hands, I feel outside of myself. Maybe I’ve had too much sun. When M walks up she tells me that she didn’t recognize me. She orders a coke with a lemon and I order a vodka soda, two limes. We order the Cobb salad from the specials board. When it arrives I begin mixing it up but M says I’m just pushing it around. She takes the reigns.

I feel better after two drinks. We’ve been going back and forth with our troubles. I try to describe the indescribable feeling that’s affected me since the morning. She tells me about her day. I complain about work. We try to solve her relationship troubles. Finishing the salad and refusing another round we pay our bill and walk to the W 4th station together before saying goodbye.

I get a rare text from S whom I’ve been seeing more of lately but not nearly enough of to get a text inviting me to hang out. He says him and L, whose name I don’t recognize, are at Time Again and to come grab a drink. I agree. Never been, sounds fun. I text B to see if she wants to tighten up our loose plans. We loop in E. Separately I invite R, since we had been texting on and off all day, talking about Prada versus Margiela sneakers, and I could tell he must be bored.

…

Walking up, I recognize the place as a spot I had gotten disastrously drunk at with H and J a few years ago, though I could have sworn they served sushi. I spot S with the aforementioned L sat at the front of the establishment in the midst of a crowd of LES who’s who all sitting on red plastic stools. A hug for S and for L a hello, how are you, you must’ve met H at that party we were at together but I don’t think we met, nice to meet you. And for me a “we’re at war now”…

I looked at the news on my phone as I stood at the bar. Yes, war. At least it seems that way. The bartender makes the two margaritas and the vodka soda I ordered as I stand there dissociating. Coming back to, I remind him I asked for two limes. Outside, I immediately spill one margarita on the table. Across the street, a group of unbothered youngins start gathering on a large set of stairs leading to a small park where a trash can fire seems to be appearing. We smoke cigarettes at the table joking pessimistically about things I’ve genuinely feared my entire life. I spot a few people I know within the crowded sidewalk seating, people I’ve forgotten about until right then. B joins and R joins and we see E ride by on a Citibike presumably looking for parking. We get another round of drinks. The gathering across the street grows and so does the trash can fire. We cheers. Cheers to a long life.

1 am

We all go our separate ways, R and I getting on bikes. Riding a little ways and stopping just outside of City Hall where a few hotdog carts with bright flood lights are stationed. I want a corndog. I’ve had too much to drink to restrain myself. We both get corndogs, laugh about it, eat them quickly, and start making our way to the West Side Highway. R is riding without hands on the handlebars. I’ve always wanted to be able to do that. He explains how to, simply by saying “you just do it”.

I feel the balance of the bike between my legs and within my abdominals. I let go of the handlebars. I just do it. We ride together through the dark bike paths until I speed on ahead and we part. I can feel that I am very drunk but I ride on. Under the overpass, the lights of the lampposts flash by as I ride faster and faster. The steady stream of air waters my eyes and blurs my vision.

I’m riding through the empty roadways of Central Park that, just this morning, had been congested with cyclist groups and runners. But now it is only me. Riding with no hands.

Playlist

Flash in the Pan - Jane Remover

Bike Scene - Taking Back Sunday

The Lighthouse - Interpol

Hikqri To Kage - Polaris

War & Peace - Ryuichi Sakamoto