One day, over a year ago now, my father came to New York. To the same table I’m sitting at now.

In this same coffee shop. We sat and spoke about my feelings.

He heard and then forgot everything I said.

The neighborhood’s changed now. Strollers seem in equal proportion to slouchy hipsters and sandal wearing twenty one years olds.

I approve of this subtle transformation. Think it a positive point wrought by recession.

Or maybe I just like to sit smugly to the side, watching those three girls huddle around the corner table of the 76^th street Starbucks, flat ironing their hair. Feel special for having outgrown so much excitement over being seen.

My thrills are found more in between my quiet bed sheets these days. In the space between my body and my own uninterrupted thoughts. In the movement of horse over soft sand. Over hours of time-less partnership.

Does this make me more evolved than my past? Perhaps.

Still, it dawned on me today that I might want to belong to something. Fit somewhere.

I no longer think I do in New York. Fit.

I feel too much for the place. Overwhelm too easily.

Perhaps I’m a wimp to admit so. Especially after five years spent trying to convince myself otherwise.