Page 66 of Songs of Summer

The Flatiron.

They continued all the way downtown until the arch of Washington Square Park appeared in the near distance. Since he’d grown up uptown, the sight of it still thrilled him.

Matt pulled into his garage, where he was greeted like a bro by the usual attendants. It made him laugh as they watched Maggie get out of the car, not in a catcalling kind of way; more for the gossip. They were like a bunch of bored teenagers and would surely ask him what the deal was with the pretty woman later.

“I live in an L-shaped studio apartment right up the street.” He pointed north as they climbed the garage ramp, squinting in the bright sunlight at the top. “But I travel somuch, I’m hardly there. I could really live anywhere. I have a friend who’s been living in Nepal since Covid. She works remotely.”

“I think it would be pretty amazing to live right here where you do!” she marveled.

“That’s funny, because I think it would be pretty amazing to live over a record store!”

“It is pretty amazing,” she admitted. “Plus, not to be a downer, but you know, the spirits of my dead parents are there, so I’m always happiest at home.”

He thought to hug her, then thought better of it.

They walked under the arch of Washington Square Park. Well, he walked, she skipped. Her eyes widened, as did the perpetual smile that had lit up her face since crossing the bridge. She was beautiful when she smiled. She was beautiful when she didn’t smile too.

She spun around in front of the fountain in the park like Julie Andrews at the start ofThe Sound of Music, taking it all in.

“I can’t believe you grew up here,” she shouted.

“I didn’t really grow up here. I grew up on the Upper East Side. It couldn’t be more different.”

“I’ve only ever seen New York in the movies.”

“OK, then, I grew up in a Woody Allen movie, and the kids down here grew up in some sort of Martin Scorsese–Ed Burns collaboration.”

Maggie laughed. “I totally get it!”

Washington Square Park rarely disappointed. Any visit more or less guaranteed sightings of an unhinged woman feeding squirrels, a kid from the suburbs buying a dime bag, a plethora of dogs, or a protest about whatever was worthprotesting at the moment, all of it set to the music of a street performer singing Dylan. In this case one of his lesser-known tunes, “Simple Twist of Fate.”

Matt could swear the guy looked at him prophetically as he crooned in a gravelly, nasal tone.

“They sat together in the park…she looked at him and he felt a spark. Tingle to his bones.”

Why is it when you are falling for someone that every love song feels like it’s written for you? If he hadn’t gone to that bar, sat on that stool, talked to that girl…all simple twists of fate. He wondered if she was feeling it too, or if she was on a totally different page.

She stopped in her tracks and wrapped her hands around his middle in what he could only describe as a love-filled hug. His cheeks turned ten shades of crimson and, upon realizing that, ten shades more.

“What was that for?” he asked after she released him, the journalist in him looking for a straight answer.

“Everything. I don’t know what I would have done without you this week.”

“It has definitely not been what I expected.” He laughed to cover up his hope; maybe shewason the same page.

“Me neither,” she said, twirling in front of him. “I can’t believe I’m in Washington Square Park! Jason would love this!”

His face dropped, along with his ego.

Not even the same chapter. Maybe it would be best if they didn’t keep in touch after all.

Maggie followed Matt out of the park and through a nondescript door below a neon sign that readtokyo listening room. Inside, Matt was greeted like a celebrity by themanager, an upbeat woman named Justine, grateful for the glowing feature he had recently written about them inRolling Stone. He introduced Maggie and explained her dream to open a similar space in her record store back home. Justine was generous and encouraging.

She led them down the narrow stairs from the bar to the tiny basement restaurant, where she directed them to the last remaining stools in front of a small open kitchen. The chef greeted them with a smile as he polished white soup bowls as if preparing to serve a queen.

It was a full house, meaning the two tables and dozen bar seats were taken. Justine called for everyone’s attention.

“Welcome to the Tokyo Listening Room. My name is Justine, your host, your friend, your Sakesan. On the turntable today, we welcome DJ Amanda Panda!”

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