new

when i arrive, dylan is in the shower, but his clothes are laid neatly over the arms of the couch. daniel is topless and glistening in the heat, plugging in the power saw. a small fan, overwhelmed by the stagnant, oppressive air of the room, shakes its head slowly from side to side: i can't do this. some heat is displaced, the vacancy is filled with slightly less awful movement.

so we are, as we have been apart, now together. the saw spits a fine dust of pine board into the fiery air of the too hot apartment. most of the wood particles are caught in the sweep of the fan and disperse wildly, sticking to any damp thing. dylan and i catch up tentatively as daniel finishes the bookshelf and night falls. we help him adjust the edges as he nail-guns a "frame" around a poster already tacked to the wall. the three of us admire our handiwork over a final beer before descending to the basement, so the boys could feed their moist garments into the mouth of the building laundry machine.

trouping down the boulevard to prospect park, we stop briefly to stand in the mist of a neptunian fountain on the boulevard. they exclaim over the endowment of the nudes, and i watch the dancers at the brooklyn museum's swing night through the bright windows across the street. fireflies blink in stands of trees around the grassy fields — the park is hidden in plain sight in the heart of the city.

we sit outside to eat tacos for dinner. a family has pried the cap off of the fire hydrant on this block, so dylan holds my shoes and purse while daniel and i race through the spray and laugh open-mouthed at the disgruntled drivers of fancier cars, who roll up their windows in disgust. we grapple for buckets and soak each other. the neighbor mama shoves her man into the fray, the children squeal with delight, and his stiff frame relaxes in the shocking comfort of cold water.