Dear New York,
Tomorrow night I am on the red-eye out of here, so tonight, I am writing to say goodbye. My two weeks is at an end - done - kaput - I am out of time, out of money - but, somehow, I don't feel ready to leave you quite yet. It seems harsh, abrupt, too sudden. It snuck up on me, just when we have started to get to know one another, just when I am beginning to feel what I can only describe as a burgeoning physical intimacy with your streets and blocks and subway, your high rises and your low rises. I know it hasn't been long. I don't want you to get the feeling that I make a habit of getting attached too easily. I am English, after all - there's nowhere like home. And, of course, every cloud has a silver lining, because at home I get to kiss my boyfriend. And my cats.
The thing is, New York - and I didn't intend for this to be an all the gin joints in all the towns kind of letter - but I think I love you. You're not easy, at first. You can seem hard, aloof, gritty, even. You can intimidate the hell out of a girl. And you sure don't make it easy to get your hands on any filter tips (just saying). I mean, don't get me wrong - you're not perfect - particularly on a spring day when the asphalt warms and the breeze blows the smell of the chicken abattoir my way - I'm not so keen on that - or when someone sweaty on the subway stands with their armpit just a touch above my head, and breathes down my neck, which I could probably do without.
But here I am, looking at your fading skyline, and I must admit, I do feel a little bereft. Maybe it's just infatuation, who knows, maybe I got lucky, and saw your more 'attractive' side - brief affairs and holiday romances such as ours do not leave much time for the mundane nitty gritty. You've shown me a good time, been all twinkly lights and restaurants and flowers. And I fell for you, hard.
On that note, was it really necessary to choose these last, fragile few hours as the moment you loosen your magnolia buds into blossom?
That really bloody doesn't seem fair at all.
Well, toodle pip. I'm going to sign off now and drown my sorrows in bourbon.
Until we meet again, New York. Know that I'll be dreaming of you.