He couldn’t stop staring, and despite sensing the world slow to a mute crawl beyond the fringe of his perception, a small part of him realized how foolish he must look to passersby. His mouth gaped open, yet no breath escaped. His heart pounded in his ears, yet no intake of air fueled it to action. Nothing, it seemed, could breach his attention to this moment—not a voice imploring him to move, not a nudge to his shoulder from an inattentive pedestrian.
Dean studied the building’s high gables and antiquated dormers, and noted the flag up top waving in the direction of the nearby park. A breeze circulated around them, but his numb condition—and the heavy overcoat Troy insisted he wear—shielded him from the elements. He’d seen the building many times in magazines and Internet sites, and knew at one time it had stood alone, remote from the rest of the burgeoning city. Now, it appeared dwarfed in the midst of skyscraping office towers.
He wanted to pan his gaze downward, toward that spot…and found he couldn’t do it without tears forming in his eyes.
Almost thirty years. Thirty fucking years, and he could still hear Howard Cosell droning the heartbreaking news over some football game he and his dad watched. The match could have aired last night, the memory remained that clear.
“You want to move closer?”
Troy’s voice finally broke the void, enough to prompt Dean to turn toward his boyfriend. Around them, others had gathered with cameras in hand or trivia to impart, bouncing on the balls of their feet in the biting winter wind. Dean didn’t have to ask the reason for their interest—it would have surprised him to learn that this anniversary didn’t hold enough significance for a crowd not to form.
Dean shook his head. Looking across West 72nd Street at the Dakota’s entrance way—that’s where it happened—he noticed a few, perhaps tourists, dared to stand on the very spot. |
