(no subject)
I'd never been on a rooftop before.
Even if it's one of those things. One of those youthful adventures that you check off from a list like items purchased from some ridiculous teenage to-do store. It's skinny-dipping, smoking marijuana at sunset, rolling down hills to be purposely illogical, making out during an automated car wash, stealing an overly sugary treat from the gas station that no one will miss, trespassing, vandalizing, staying up for days, and escaping you-have-to's whenever possible.
(Way to be cliché, kid.)
But the rooftop. We weren't supposed to be there. So, of course, elation. If we were always allowed to be parading across flat, open hats of a city, I'm afraid it would be as normal and thusly as eventually unexciting as riding an escalator.
I followed a stream of chattering elites through a hallway, trailing behind them with a smile flickering on and off of the corners of my mouth, another slot in a flicking tail of rebellious jubilation. I giggled with the breath of my gin lemonade, realizing that I was moving through the electricity of that teenage check list while the majority of those around me were merely revisiting it. I was tiptoeing, giggling, all with the third floor of the illustrious Grove Arcade: business owners with liberal frames, parents with extensive libraries stacked like artwork, entrepreneurs with cabinets full of wine, fancy schmucks who understand the appeal of darker woods and rich carpets, gay men who entertain with endless jokes. It's Abraham Lincoln, organic fruits, shiny countertops, Baroque composers, and expression, even if I'm not sure how one becomes an adult.
They live a couple floors above an upscale shopping area. They are the balconies of an exclusive world, playing badminton across the tiles once the doors are locked, lugging their jacquard antique chairs into the hallways to form circles, drink, toss their wrists into the air, groomed cats at their feet and laughter almost always. They play word games; they rattle the chains of politics. I like these people.
I like them, however, in the way that I like a storyline, in that they are never truly whole to me and I can still play with their details for my own amusement. I don't want the whole story; it would freeze curiosity.
What started as a playful and unattainable suggestion (going up on the roof on the grand 4th of July) ended as a joy-startling happening. With a code pressed, we were transported to the fourth floor. I floated around the sharp edges of a changing hallway. We stomped single-file. The walls were cream. Cream is often a desolate color, being not as crisp as white and not as melancholy as grey.
I felt excited, distrustful that this silly little night was actually taking shape. But regardless of all of it, soon I was walking onto a windy expanse.
The night was splattered with clouds. I could see the tops of stone carvings sticking up like baby grasses over the edge. I felt like I needed to hold hands with Spiderman, or run furiously, or walk slowly and gracefully with my eyes fixed on one distant light, or simply stand still, eyes closed, and imagine the wind as an airy fabric and attempt to give it a name.
Past the wannabe-epic bullshit, however, I walked giddily to the edge and stood.
I watched.
It was lovely.
Even if it's one of those things. One of those youthful adventures that you check off from a list like items purchased from some ridiculous teenage to-do store. It's skinny-dipping, smoking marijuana at sunset, rolling down hills to be purposely illogical, making out during an automated car wash, stealing an overly sugary treat from the gas station that no one will miss, trespassing, vandalizing, staying up for days, and escaping you-have-to's whenever possible.
(Way to be cliché, kid.)
But the rooftop. We weren't supposed to be there. So, of course, elation. If we were always allowed to be parading across flat, open hats of a city, I'm afraid it would be as normal and thusly as eventually unexciting as riding an escalator.
I followed a stream of chattering elites through a hallway, trailing behind them with a smile flickering on and off of the corners of my mouth, another slot in a flicking tail of rebellious jubilation. I giggled with the breath of my gin lemonade, realizing that I was moving through the electricity of that teenage check list while the majority of those around me were merely revisiting it. I was tiptoeing, giggling, all with the third floor of the illustrious Grove Arcade: business owners with liberal frames, parents with extensive libraries stacked like artwork, entrepreneurs with cabinets full of wine, fancy schmucks who understand the appeal of darker woods and rich carpets, gay men who entertain with endless jokes. It's Abraham Lincoln, organic fruits, shiny countertops, Baroque composers, and expression, even if I'm not sure how one becomes an adult.
They live a couple floors above an upscale shopping area. They are the balconies of an exclusive world, playing badminton across the tiles once the doors are locked, lugging their jacquard antique chairs into the hallways to form circles, drink, toss their wrists into the air, groomed cats at their feet and laughter almost always. They play word games; they rattle the chains of politics. I like these people.
I like them, however, in the way that I like a storyline, in that they are never truly whole to me and I can still play with their details for my own amusement. I don't want the whole story; it would freeze curiosity.
What started as a playful and unattainable suggestion (going up on the roof on the grand 4th of July) ended as a joy-startling happening. With a code pressed, we were transported to the fourth floor. I floated around the sharp edges of a changing hallway. We stomped single-file. The walls were cream. Cream is often a desolate color, being not as crisp as white and not as melancholy as grey.
I felt excited, distrustful that this silly little night was actually taking shape. But regardless of all of it, soon I was walking onto a windy expanse.
The night was splattered with clouds. I could see the tops of stone carvings sticking up like baby grasses over the edge. I felt like I needed to hold hands with Spiderman, or run furiously, or walk slowly and gracefully with my eyes fixed on one distant light, or simply stand still, eyes closed, and imagine the wind as an airy fabric and attempt to give it a name.
Past the wannabe-epic bullshit, however, I walked giddily to the edge and stood.
I watched.
It was lovely.