I Just Need To Believe It Exists
Lessons from the city streets
My husband and I are on a date night in Manhattan. It is a warm, summer August night — and we are walking to see a comedy show on the Upper West Side, and our lovely little two-year-old son, who we adore so much, is at his grandparents.
It’s date night, folks.
We walk and stop to get a coffee instead of a cocktail because we are parents who are going to a nighttime activity.
As we’re walking to the theatre, I tell my husband that one of my favorite things about walking around Manhattan is overhearing people’s conversations. The snippets of other languages, one-sided phone calls, lovers having squabbles, best friends telling each other how much they love one another, parents guiding their children, buskers enjoying praise, and passionate arguments make my heart happy.
It’s a slice of life.
We’re three blocks from the theatre when we pass two friends walking, and one woman says to the other, “I just want to believe that it exists.”
I don’t know what the end of that statement was. Maybe it was about the perfect apartment — the rent-controlled, Carrie Bradshaw apartment that hosted dreams, fancy parties, and love stories that inspired greatness.
