Page 44 of Love Is an Art
“All right, you lead. I’ll follow.”
On the bike path, we cycle under an overpass, then cross a highway. Zeke’s ahead. He turns to give me a thumbs-up and waves his hand to indicate we’re taking a left turn. I do like a man who can decipher a map.
We stop at a red light. Next to us is another couple, their baskets filled with grocery bags, strawberries and fresh carrots peeking out. We smile at each other.
The light turns green, and we’re off again. Zeke signals right. Up ahead, an arrow sign announces the Brooklyn Bridge with an illustration of a bicycle. We cycle on a green-painted, two-lane bike path, me behind Zeke. The wide, green path suddenly narrows into two east–west lanes. A curving, cement barrier with a wire fence on top separates us from the speeding cars.
That cement barrier kills any romantic vibe. Not to mention the cars stampeding past us.
An e-bike passes us, zooming along, while we push uphill.
We’re finally on the bridge, but there’s no way to stop. Other cyclists are racing toward us in the lane going east, the headlights announcing their arrival, while a few follow behind us in the lane going west. Above us to the left side is the leisurely, wooden pathway for pedestrians. The blue of the river is a distant backdrop through the wire fencing.
But people smile as they pass us, going in the opposite direction. We’re in this together. Or maybe I look sweaty and like I’m struggling. Citi Bikes are heavy.
And suddenly, it’s downhill. Whoo-hoo! We speed down the road. Zeke looks back quickly, grinning.
And then we’re out of the narrow, tunnel-like pathway. In front of us is City Hall Park. Tall, leafy trees hide the stately, white, government buildings, while the lighted display stands selling brightly colored goods for tourists pop out against the foliage.
“That wasnotromantic at all,” Zeke says.
“Nope,” I say. “Maybe it’s the Manhattan Bridge that has the better bike route?”
“But the end was fun.”
“Super fun,” I say.
We dismount and walk our bikes across the street to City Hall Park.
“When did you last bike across the bridge?” he asks.
“In law school …” I stop. “My friend went to Columbia Law School, and they did an all-night biking trip around Manhattan, so I went with them. There’s something about biking at night. As long as it’s safe. But I guess since it was at 3 a.m., we went on the pedestrian pathway. Should we take a picture now?” We pull off our helmets and take a selfie, our heads close together.
We look cute, almost like an ad for a happy, blonde couple.
“We’re not done yet.” I kick up my kickstand. “Next up is Wall Street. It’s cool at night because it’s empty, and it feels like biking through cavernous tunnels. You can almost imagine the buildings are mountains.” I discovered this after a late meeting with a Wall Street client when I decided to bike back home.
We get back on our bikes. We turn left on Park Row and then turn left again on Spruce Street, then right on Gold Street. The streets are nearly empty, with very few cars or people. This part of the city shuts down at night.
Now in the Wall Street area, we swoop through the narrow streets. Zeke turns his head to grin at me. The air rushes by my face. I feel a flash of pleasure that he likes this too. This has to count more than my saying I’m an artist.
“It does have a canyon feel. It’s cool,” he says.
We have to switch bikes to avoid the fee for exceeding the rental time limit, so Zeke searches for the nearest Citi Bike station on the app. After forty minutes, Citi Bike charges per minute, so we need to start the clock running again. We cycle to the nearest station at Hanover Square, return our bikes, and take out new ones.
“I love checking out the different neighborhoods of New York,” Zeke says.
“Me too. Whenever I feel a craving for travel but can’t, I take a trip to a different part. There’s so much to see—and feel.”
We’re at the very bottom tip of Manhattan. The vast expanse of water greets us with the low-lying islands of the other boroughs. The Statue of Liberty beckons from its separate island. We cycle toward the Hudson River to find a bike path. Passing by both the Staten Island terminal and another terminal I don’t know the name of, the wide expanse of the Hudson behind us, we continue on through a two-way path surrounded by leafy willow trees, their branches curving over, creating a little oasis. Off in the distance, jazz music plays, but it’s muffled by the leaves. A trumpet cries out, its longing reverberating through the hush. Some birds chirp to each other. We slow down to bike side by side.
And I need to put a brake on my feelings. I’m falling for him. But I fear that when I reveal that I lied to him, it will be over.
We reach the horseshoe-shaped boat dock where the yachts moor. People dine outside; I catch a whiff of French fries, lobsters, and fried fish as we cycle by.
Then we find the Hudson River bike pathway. The river glistens in the dark, the lights glowing on the New Jersey side. The night breeze is like a caress. We pass by someone playing electric rock music on their boombox. The music catches that popping excitement, that beat, the zip I feel when our glances catch—a sense of possibility that Zeke and I could work if he can forgive that I lied to him, and if he’s not connected to Jurgen, and if he’s okay with dating a lawyer.
We turn off at 72ndStreet and return the bikes. Then we walk very slowly in the direction of my apartment. I glance at him as he turns his head away. Was he looking at me? I don’t want the night to end. And I definitely don’t want to tell him I’m actually a lawyer and ruin the mood of this date. Let me have one more nice memory to counter the reveal.
