"Over the great bridge, with the sunlight through the girders making a constant flicker upon the moving cars, with the city rising up across the river in white heaps and sugar lumps all built with a wish out of non-olfactory money. The city seen from the Queensboro Bridge is always the city seen for the first time, in its first wild promise of all the mystery and the beauty in the world…"
“Anything can happen now that we’ve slid over this bridge,” I thought; “anything at all…” --F. Scott Fitzgerald, “The Great Gatsby”
Last night, I crossed that same bridge, marveled at the beauty and remembered that I left behind a warm kitchen, the love of my life, my mother's quiet tears over our loss. Back to business as usual. Wild promise, mystery and beauty beckon...
I am a Southerner in the City, an aging debutante, a small town girl cursed with big city aspirations. My grandfather says that I’m at the cusp of feminine failure—I’m as old as a bottle of prime Tennessee whiskey (aged 25 years) and still single. I need to “get on home” and find a nice Southern boy—a doctor, maybe an insurance salesman. At this, I dig in my heels and set out to date every inappropriate man in Manhattan…
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