My first trip to New York was with him,
the man I married 8 years before in Hong Kong.
The man I moved in with on the night of our first date.
The man I ran from to Koh Samui,
two years before we boarded our Cathay flight out of Hong Kong to JFK.
The cutlery ice cold like the butter on my plate.
We took off on a Thursday morning,
landed Thursday morning,
leaving our two daughters with their nanny.
We taxied into town,
into Times Square,
past frost,
past wind,
past Christmas lights,
to the CitizenM.
Fell on the oversized king bed by the window, above the city, high.
Showered,
changed,
ate my first New York cream cheese and salmon bagel,
walked downtown.
At the 9/11 Memorial we went silent,
two fountains,
squares, deep, empty,
my hands holding onto his arm,
my head against his shoulder,
stilling the city for a moment.
At Battery Park we saw Lady Liberty,
not that tall in the distance,
at Wall Street standing by the bull,
I said to him:
“I’m glad I got out of banking.”
For lunch he took me to Lupa in the Village,
his favourite eatery in NY,
two days in a row.
The pasta Vongole,
the glasses of Soave cold, condensing in the sunlight, tasted
just like Rome
just like Venice,
just like home.
At MoMA he showed me the same record player we had at home.
He said: “It’s the one from Clockwork Orange.”
We stared at Klein Blau, like bright cobalt,
visited Warhol,
got caught in the rain.
At Tiffany’s I bought a little trinket for daughter one.
We walked,
feet sore,
feet in wet shoes stepping into water,
puddles deeper than we guessed.
I needed a Pharmacy.
I can’t remember why.
At Patsy’s the waiter said: “take your time,” as he placed the bill folded on the table,
Sinatra smiling in a black and white hanging over his shoulder.
By the time we showered and crashed onto our oversized mattress
I said to him:
“I can if you want to, BB.”
He said:
“Just come here, BB.”
Spooning me tight,
my bum against his cock,
looking at the city lights,
dozing off held by him.
By the time the sun was rising,
By the time we took off from New York to Washington DC,
I’d sent each daughter a postcard from the airport.
I snuggled up next to him in soft grey leather seats,
him online looking for hotels and eateries for the next two nights.
By the time I got back to New York same time next year,
I had attended a fundraising conference in Miami, alone.
Sat in an airport lounge watching Trump on TV congratulate Hillary Clinton for running an impressive campaign, alone,
taxied into the city, alone.
I went back to Lupa alone.
I called him in Hong Kong briefly.
The Christmas tree at Rockefeller Centre didn’t seem as tall as last year.
The Christmas lights at Radio City weren’t quite as bright.
The VS ads didn’t hold the same charge. Didn't turn me on.
By the time I got back to Hong Kong
I had stocked up on bras and underwear at Saks.
A woman who looked like Mary Poppins aged with grace,
pulled me into a fitting room.
She tut-tutted and scolded me with mother’s eyes,
studying my bare frame and chest.
“Your bra is too small,” she said.
“You’re spilling out. Your posture is poor.”
By the time I left the department store I was standing tall and full.
I had felt a mother’s hands
holding my torso,
my chest,
my shoulders.
Bringing me bras and comfort.
For him I got a black down vest from Prada,
stolen years later on the train from Göttingen to Berlin.
In outlet malls.
In thrift shops.
I look for it again.