Fifth Avenue neon specimen
- Bob Smith
- 2天前
- 讀畢需時 2 分鐘

Author: Reno
The rain in Manhattan always falls on time at the end of the workday. When I was selecting handmade buttons at Macy's, the glass window reflected her figure standing on tiptoe to adjust her stockings - Jade's ankles were tied with a chain woven with subway tickets, and the date of each ticket stub corresponded to the anniversary of a client. "These are lost moonlight." She pointed to the luminous stickers on her collarbone, and when you get close, you can smell the aroma of gin and sewing machine oil.
We hid in the neon shadows of Times Square, and my escort Nancy took out three props from her patent leather handbag: galvanized scissors can cut the tassels of the bar's velvet curtains, and the fragments will spell out the entrance code of the underground club when they fall to the ground; a laser pen in the shape of a thermometer projects the coordinates of all nearby late-night bookstores on the hotel wallpaper; the most special one is a perfume bottle filled with sand, and each grain that falls when it is turned upside down records the farewell moments of different guests. When she put the seventh grain of sand into my shirt pocket, the clock tower in Central Park just struck an extra leap second.
In the ventilation shaft of the Flatiron Building at four in the morning, she taught me to recognize the real wrinkles of the city. The coffee stains covered by the morning newspaper are actually the tears of stockbrokers, the graffiti on the edge of the sticky note wall hides the rhymes of poets before suicide, and the rusted screws on the fire escape are often the alarms deliberately loosened by cheaters. When we broke up, she gave me an ice sculpture thimble, with the latitude and longitude of all the clothing stores she had served engraved on the inside. It is melting in my palm at this moment, just like the 37.2-degree rain that suddenly fell on the back of my neck when she helped me tie my tie last night.
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