Unlikely Best Friends

I am currently trapped under A Portrait of the Artist as Young Man, A Passage to India, and The Instance of the Finger Post, so please excuse my lack of update.

I wrote this for Daily Themes.

It was dream week.

So Copernicus and Martin Luther are on the 5, right, express from Fulton to 86^th and Lex, hoping to score themselves some cultured honeys at the pietre dure exhibit at the Met. Marty’s sprawled over two seats flipping through the brochure, yelling out non-interesting facts (Man, we gotta hit the café, they got burgers shaped like Guernica!), and Nicky’s throwing apologetic glances all over the train, his eyes saying, Sorry, I’m with ridiculous.

“Trust me,” Marty says, “It’s all jewelry boxes and vases and shit. The ladies love that kind of stuff. But you gotta stay away from the tourists this time. I am not in the mood to explain to no other doe-eyed, country girl that Broadway and West Broadway ain’t the same street. I mean, look at the sign girl! They got two different names!”

And then the train stops and they get out, and they’re walking up the granite staircase and through the glass doors and through the glass doors and up the marble stair case to the second floor where all the European stuff is and sliding past them is some tu-tu wearing young thing, and Marty’s all over it trying to intercept her.

“Girl,” he says, sidling up behind her, “You lookin’ spontaneous!”

She turns, gives him a once over, says,

“What do you think about Degas?”

He says, “I don’t know much about any type of day, I’m more of a night man if you know what I mean.”

He winks.

She frowns, adjusts the red flower in her hair, and jumps back into her painting.

“Alright, alright,” he calls to her immobile form, “I’ll catch up with you later. We’ll ren-dez-voos for lunch.”

He turns back to Nicky, says “And here I thought these art folks was supposed to have manners. You know what, I’mma leave comment card—rude ass dancers should not be admitted.”

Nicky shakes his head, says, “Well, I’m sure if you could resist nailing it the door this time, the administration might be more receptive to your requests; although I suspect that temperamental teenagers are not their most pressing concern.”

Marty crosses his arms, “Why you always got to be all huge-word-centric? Just talk man.”

“Marty,” Nicky says, putting a hand on his shoulder, “You got 95 problems and a ballerina ain’t one.”