Cedric Comes Home

In a taxicab, heading east, we disagree about where, exactly, we’re going:

“It’s 11th, I think,” the Mouse says.

“Or 10th?” (And who knows says this. Four people in a cab.)

Along the avenue, cars turn their lights on and off, squiggle into parking spots. The street lights burn bright above us. The cab stops. Craning your neck out the window, you can see where stars would be in the sky.

“This will sound weird,” Cedric says, his German accent slight and charming, his English perfect. He’s thinking in English: We’ll discuss this later. “But New York is so beautiful.”

“It doesn’t sound weird,” I say. Ahead of us, brake lights wink out. You can smell the cabbie’s frustration. “It doesn’t sound weird at all.”

“11th, for sure,” says the Mouse. The cabbie swerves perfectly into a space, and draws us into line.

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