Strange Are the Ways of Love

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Summer.

July, she thought. Summer in New York, with no shade trees or swimming holes, and the sun would be unbearably hot. The taxi turned a corner with its wheels screeching and headed south on Seventh Avenue. She glanced momentarily at the back of the driver’s head, then turned to gaze out the window, running her fingers nervously through her hair.

A rubber band held her black hair in a long pony tail, and she decided that both the rubber band and the pony tail would have to go. Maybe she would just let her hair fall free, straight down her back with the wind blowing through it.

Was there ever a breeze in New York in the summer? There had to be. New York was the same, every place was the same, in July or September or January. And outside on Seventh Avenue the people were the same, and downtown in the Village they would be the same.

And she was just another silly little girl from the Midwest, another corn-fed bit of fluff from Indiana making the famous pilgrimage to the big city.

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