About Tuesday Night
The weather Tuesday morning was a bloody mess. I would be lying if I said my spirits were high. It felt like all of New York City (and perhaps the world) was a suspended over a big boiling cauldron of soupy, gloppy, clingy steam. It felt like putting your face in a terrarium that hadn’t been opened in a while. Air so thick I could see it clinging to my window. But somehow I summoned the courage to turn the oven to 400˚F and bake. And then commute.
“At least there would be pie,” I said cheerily, before my umbrella turned inside out and the handle fell off.
As the day progressed the weather got worse. Big black clouds dropping thunder and lightning, then the cats and dogs turned into cougars and wolves.
I had planned a picnic. Ugh. Much back-and-forthing. Finally an inside place for us to meet. Then came the excuses and regrets until finally there were just three of us.
Three of us found ourselves sitting on Pilates equipment on a black, black early evening. Sheets of rain outside.
I hadn’t planned it. Pie makes for strange bedfellows. But in this case, both Eriola and Regina had just come back from the same troubled region of the world. Though they didn’t know each other til this night, they were each writing reports on the region. Over pie, we discussed the complicated and bloody landscape of the region. Slice by slice, its history of hatreds dating back more centuries than one cared to count. Slice by slice, violence upon violence, until today’s sad powder keg of disagreements and promises unkept.