Wednesday mornings are for roof lounging. A strong irish coffee in hand and a view of the most famous skyline in the world. I’m ready.
I’m waiting for Maz.
She’s riding her bike. There’s champagne on ice in her basket.
Today we will be celebrating life, love and adventure. We’ll be toasting to friendship and the thrill of being inspired by the free spirit we admire within each other.
The day is young. I’m excited to see where today will take us.
I found her out on the fire escape. Broadway is eerily quiet so early on a Saturday morning. There are almost no cars. Maybe a couple of taxis. The Soho shopping district won’t wake for another few hours.
She hasn’t slept.
'I wonder where my boots are….' She says.
'Who's apartment are we in?'.
With eyes wide, I shrug.
From the interior, someone puts on a record. Music From Big Pink.
'Coffee?', offers Adrien as he pokes his head out the window. So French. So rock 'n' roll.
A steaming french press appears. Along with a bottle of Jameson. The only way he does it.
Slowly, the crew of six join us, out high above the pavement. Our giggles echo down the street.
Last night’s adventures continue.
That is how I would describe the types of men that surround Maz.
Another word that comes to mind when I think of the common theme between her and her men.
Is the word that inspires awe and lust for a life lived alongside Maz.
I lost her for months. Maz won’t do Winter.
This time, Maz is more terrible than ever. Wild, untamed and prepared to plunge into the Summer with more than her usual reckless abandonment.
She is the embodiment of rock ‘n’ roll, and it’s impossible not to notice. We’re in for a wild ride. Maz and I.
We may get lost. Don’t come find us.
She jetés from the train to the platform… headphones on.
The music has invoked a mood.
Her straight back, head held high, long legs strut in time, the devil in her eye. Hips…. sway.
They all stare at her, wondering what makes her smile.
What divine rhythm makes her move that way?
Rubbing my eyes, I wake up to the smell of coffee and the crackle of the record player. The sweet African beats of Sunny Ade come to life and I’m up. Maz is ready to play.
The front door of the bungalow is flung open and breakfast cocktails are served on the porch. The bicycles are readied for beach and boardwalk adventures, surfboards attached.
Summer has called. Maz has arrived.
It was Summer and the boardwalks of Coney Island stretched out for miles ahead of us. There was a reggae sound system blaring and our bare feet dancing.
A beautiful distant dream. How I long for those days again Maz.
We follow her footprints in the snow. She doesn’t own rubber boots. I can imagine that her feet are very wet and cold now. She ran from the car hollering and whooping. Then we lost her in the trees as she headed towards the river.
After discovering an angel in the snow, I know that the rest of her is wet also.
We follow the prints a little further until I am hard hit in the back of my head. With the sound of her haughty laughter coming from behind me, I spin around to find Maz rolling about in two feet of snow.
I can play this game. It’s on.